cross my palm with silver
by toraffles
Summary: A coin-flip, a bullet with your name on it, and a cursed horse is a perilous mix that typically only results in angry gypsies, a family feud, and a headache. But sometimes—very rarely—the group of angry gypsies may just so happen to also include a witch. Who is, despite all her claims to cure them, still a headache all of her own. OCxTommy, from series 1.
1. Hail Mary

**cross my palm with silver** (line your pockets with good fortune)

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* * *

**I. Hail Mary**

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_Ki Shan I Romani  
Adoi san' I chov'hani_.

Wherever Gypsies go,  
There the witches are, we know.

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"I'm sorry," murmured Thomas Shelby, lifting his revolver to the horse's head. He pulled back the hammer, his teeth clenched painfully. He stood there for a moment, bracing himself, and then—

There was a scream; a girl suddenly tore out from the pile of hay behind him. "_NO_!" she cried, slipping on the mound of straw. "Don't shoot, don't shoot!"

Tommy turned, alarmed. The nozzle of his gun moved immediately towards the new threat, but the girl dove at him without any sense of caution at all, throwing herself around his outstretched arm and pinning it against the front of her body. Her hands slid down his sleeve, locked together around his wrist, and when his finger instinctively pulled the trigger, the bullet was sent harmlessly into an empty patch of floor near their feet.

The report of the gun thundered around them. Through the sharp ringing that followed, Tommy could only hear the harsh rasp of his own throat, the throb of his pulse against his eardrums. He stared in disbelief at the girl clinging onto his arm, unsettled by this bewildering new development. She stared fiercely back, her chest shuddering against him with short, quick pants of exertion.

The girl's black hair was a riot of straw and tumultuous curls. Her lips were the blood red of a flush, but her skin was ashen. Dirt dotted across her face like stark freckles. Her eyes were blown wide, and they burned darkly against the unnaturally pale cast of her face. Her every breath caused a diaphanous white cloud to swell up between them and caress their cheeks, as if there were endless plumes of smoke kept hidden in her lungs. Shadows fell across her body in strange patterns, distorting her shape until she seemed more like a phantasm than a human.

Tommy had never seen such a girl before in his life; not her, and not anyone like her. She looked like she could pluck out the bones of men and carve the marks of her teeth into them. She looked like a wild thing.

The white horse whinnied, breaking the tense, electric charge that had riveted them both. The steady beat of the pouring rain rushed back into his ears. Before Tommy could shove her off, or say anything, or even allow himself to blink, the girl sprang away from him and hurried away to the beast's side.

"Shh," said the girl, smoothing a hand under the horse's jaw. The horse was tossing its head about and shuffling back and forth as best it could on three legs, still startled by the loud crack of the gun. At the touch of the girl's cheek against its muzzle, it calmed almost immediately. The girl smiled and kissed the horse's satiny nose. "That's it. It's okay, _ves'tacha_. I'm here now."

Ves'tacha. _My beloved_. Tommy pulled a hand over his face and grit his teeth again. The girl was a fucking gypsy.

What the hell was she doing here? Was she a Lee? With the bullet still burning a hole in his pocket and his new horse cursed into an irremediable state, Tommy was not feeling particularly amenable towards having any member of the Lee clan lurking in his stables, doing… whatever it was that she had been doing. Cosseting his horse, cursing his horse, stealing his horse, it didn't matter. She was an intruder, and she needed to be gone.

Tommy lifted his revolver again and pointed it at the back of the girl's head. Perhaps she could feel the gaze of the gun on her, because she spun on her heel to face him, her bright, patterned skirt twisting out with her and revealing her bare ankles. "Stop, don't shoot him!" the girl yelped, striding forward and fully stretching out her arms to either side. Her shawl fell down her shoulders into the crooks of her elbows. She stood in front of the horse with her chin set stubbornly, as if her small, bird-boned body could serve as an infrangible shield against all his bullets.

"Give me one bloody good reason why I shouldn't shoot _you_," Tommy said in a low, strained voice. The muscles in his jaw were bunched up in a way that anyone who knew the Shelby name would recognize as dangerous. His finger was tight on the trigger, ready to dismiss her at a moment's notice.

The girl blinked at him. With the certain tone of someone who already knew the outcome of a bet, she said, "This is your horse now, right? You know that he's sick, cursed by an old _baba_ and infected by a ruinous seed.

"Well, I'm going to cure him."

A beat. Tommy stared at her again, his eyes keen and scrutinizing. She met his gaze boldly, not a lick of fear or doubt in her.

"How," he demanded.

"I'm a witch, and a gifted one," she said, very seriously. "The Lees have found an authentic wise woman to curse him, so it will take effort, but her curse is not irreversible. _I_ can do it."

Tommy considered this. The girl may have lacked modesty, but she lacked pretension as well, and for that he was willing to humour her. Besides, he could not think of any means to fight one witch's curse other than by using another witch. He was about to put the horse out of its misery anyway; it was no real loss for Tommy, even if she failed.

Unless, of course, she was about to use the opportunity to kill a Peaky Blinder. Namely, him.

"Why?" he asked cautiously. Both his gun and his eyes remained steadily trained on her.

"Because… he's my little brother."

Tommy's lashes fluttered. He lowered his arm.

She may have been crazy, but gypsy witches generally were. It was as bloody good a reason as any.

* * *

"I got here a couple hours ago, which was a whole day later than I'd hoped," the girl commented, rummaging through the hay and bringing out a bulging leather physician's bag. Tommy watched quietly as she hurried past him and to a darkened corner of the stable. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets, his fingers still curled around the handle of the gun.

"Your Curly is right; the curse will hit his heart tomorrow and there will be nothing we can do, then. At least I got here before that." The girl extricated another two large sacks from the shadows underneath some wooden planks, and dragged them over near where the horse had been tied up. With her build, he thought it rather unlikely that she could carry such heavy burdens by herself, but she managed with only a grunt of effort. Tommy, of course, made absolutely no indication of helping, not that it seemed to occur to her to ask.

The girl sat down carelessly onto the pile of hay in front of the horse, and began to dig through the bags around her. "It'll take me all night, but I can stop the infection before it gets to that point, and then I can focus on purging the root of the curse entirely," she continued. From one of the sacks, she found two sets of pestle and mortar, and from the physician's bag she plucked out all sorts of jars, pouches, sleeves and tins, as well as an entire leather case full of glass vials.

It looked like she really was a witch. Even so, that didn't mean he'd trust her.

Tommy pulled over a stool and sat, prepared to stay there all night—or however else long it might take. Sleep was already beyond him at this point.

The girl paused in the midst of pawing through tins of unknown powders to glance at him. "You're going to stay?" she asked, her lips pursed. She looked displeased.

This gratified Tommy, somehow—it felt as if he'd regained some of the ground that he'd lost earlier. Thomas Shelby was not a man used to being bewildered by anything, and the simple fact that she'd done it vexed him to no end. He wouldn't be a Shelby if he didn't vex her back.

"Is that going to be a problem?" he asked lowly. His hand left the gun in his pocket to pull two cartons from his pocket and flick out a cigarette. His lips molded around the filter.

The match box was slightly damp; when he tried to light a matchstick, the flame wouldn't catch. Tommy threw the first wet match into the mud outside and then took out another. The entire time, his skin prickled with an intense awareness of eyes tracking his every movement—it was a hypersensitivity that was not unlike the feeling of clothes brushing against exposed nerves.

Tommy struck the next match but it, too, wouldn't light. The one after that was the same. He felt his mood souring. It seemed he wouldn't even be able to have a smoke until the matches dried.

"Try that one again," said the girl, raising her fingers in front of her mouth. Tommy glanced up at her with a dubious brow, but complied. He struck the match again, and this time the rasping drag of the matchbox was accompanied by a loud snap and an exhalation of breath.

The match head burst to life.

Tommy hummed lowly in acknowledgement and lit the cigarette hanging from his lips. He took a deep drag, appreciating the thick smoke drifting into the corners of his chest and warming him up from the inside. It was bloody cold in here.

The girl sat surrounded by all of her equipment but did not move to touch even a single herb. Her legs were drawn to one side and her skirt had risen up to her knees, exposing her smooth calves and the delicate taper of her ankles. Tommy's hooded eyes swept over the bare, creamy skin of her legs with bald appreciation. Women from Birmingham were not as forward as those from London. Unless they were whores, they did not tend to go around in public view without stockings, which made this somewhat of a rare sight. He could recognize a good thing when it was offered so freely.

Of course, this was another breed of woman altogether. A gypsy, and a fucking witch at that. His eyes drew back up to the girl's profile, an expression of disinterest settling into his features. She was fine to look at, but he had no desire to be cursed by a woman scorned, not when her curses may very well come true.

The girl had long retracted her gaze and was instead contemplating her hands, which were lying very still in her lap. "It _is_ going to be a bit of a problem, because you're carrying something with bad energy—a portent, maybe—and it's going to contaminate the poultice and sour the blessing," she said, not noticing his traveling attention in the least. Her mouth pursed into a moue. "I suppose you wouldn't agree to shifting over to the other side of the threshold for a while?"

"You suppose correctly," Tommy replied dryly, leaning back against the frame of the stable entrance. It was pissing madly outside, and he had no intention of sitting around in that downpour. Nor would he get rid of what he suspected to be the source of the 'bad energy'; he had use for that bullet yet.

It wasn't that Tommy didn't want his horse to be cured, but if the girl was as talented as she claimed, she would find a way around it. As usual, he was proven correct when she turned away with a scowl and rummaged through her bag again, mumbling, "Where's my—ah, found it." She disentangled herself from the depths of her bag with a water jug and a large jar full of white grains. Salt.

Hopping to her feet, the girl approached him with the jug under her arm and a fist full of salt. Tommy watched indolently as she knelt before him and began to spread a thin, solid line in a circle around him, mumbling under her breath the whole time. It took several handfuls, because her hand was rather small, and when she was done she unselfconsciously nudged apart his legs so that they were spread. He allowed it, fag hanging between his lips and eyes fixed to the back of her bowed head.

The girl left to dip the jug into the water trough so that it came out full. This she put under his chair, crawling carefully between his knees to situate it in the center of the salt circle. As she squirmed out, she took care to sprinkle a few drops of water onto the ground between Tommy's feet.

She moved briskly, and did not even seem to realize how suggestive their positions were. Perhaps she was the oblivious sort, he mused.

"You mustn't break the circle or you'll introduce poor fortune into my work," the girl reminded him, straightening up. The stables were dark, but colour seemed to have finally returned to her face—it was flushed a faint pink.

A smirk skimmed across Tommy's mouth and disappeared just as quickly. Perhaps not so oblivious after all.

"Fine," he said to the girl, nodding once. He quelled the instinctual desire to needle her. She was doing her earnest best to be professional, so he would do her a favour and do the same.

As the girl returned to her makeshift workstation, Tommy reflected that this entire encounter had the distinct, hazy quality of a dream. Since when did he do people favours?

It made sense, the more he thought about it. Waking in the middle of the night because the shovels had broken through the wall was routine, something he must have done a thousand times at least. Being called out at night in the midst of a rainstorm, finding that his new horse had been cursed, and having a witch spring from the haystacks and declare that the horse was her brother and that she would cure the horse of its ailment… that was not. Tommy's problems did not tend to have solutions until he forcibly compelled those solutions into existence.

He hadn't even had to shoot the horse. That must have some fortuitous meaning, surely. There were worse dreams to have than one featuring a racehorse and a comely Roma girl. Not that Tommy had known himself to ever be interested enough in a gypsy to dream about one—particularly such a one as her, who did not have a single ounce of civility in her bones— but he supposed that there was an undeniable charm to the unruly black hair, the bright, spirited eyes, that waifish body. It was the allure of an untamed filly distilled into the form of a woman.

As far as dreams went, this wasn't bad at all. Certainly, it was far better than the godforsaken tunnels.

"I gather you're not from the Lee clan," Tommy prompted idly, lounging on the stool as languorously as if it were a throne. He observed the girl as she threw herbs and powders and other unidentifiable objects into her two mortars, which she had installed into the cradle of her crossed legs.

"You mean the bastards who had little brother cursed? No, definitely not," she replied absently. She picked up both pestles in either hand and began to grind ingredients with precise twists of her wrists, sooty lashes lowered in concentration. "I'm Naomie, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. My father breeds horses, and my grandmother is a talented witch. We're of the Young clan, currently based somewhere southwest of Birmingham. If you want to look into my background, that's probably enough, right?"

"Never said I was going to," Tommy remarked, brow quirked. It was useful information, though. Young was indeed a known gypsy name, though he couldn't immediately recall any particulars about the clan itself. And, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter—that was a rare and blessed position to have. If true, it explained why she thought she was more powerful than an old wise woman. She probably was.

Naomie Young glanced at Tommy without turning her head, her eyes flickering to him and then away so quickly that he might have missed it had he not been so focused on her. "But you _are_ going to. You look like a busy man, so I thought that I might as well make the process easier for you. Besides, since I don't have a closet, I haven't any skeletons in it."

"No, you've just buried yours, eh?" he replied sardonically. The girl was not facing him directly, so he couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw her rolling her eyes.

Tommy supposed it was refreshing, to find someone who offered information so freely and without prompt. All Shelbys tended to hold secrets closely to their chests, and prying information from one of them was often far more difficult than pulling out teeth, at least when sober. This was, in fact, true not just of _his_ family, but for most people that he dealt with on a regular basis.

Consider him refreshed, then. Derisive, but refreshed.

"You sound like my gran."

"No one's ever accused their grandmother of sounding like me before," replied Tommy. He blinked slowly and considered the claim with more weight than it likely merited. "She must be terrible."

A tiny smile flashed across Naomie's red mouth. She grabbed another tin and began to add its contents to the larger mortar. "I disagree. She's my favourite person and I love her very much," she said, returning to her pestles. "And you're not that bad, either."

"Give it time," he muttered, in a voice like gravel. It was said mostly to himself, but Naomie smiled down at her lap again.

Tommy closed his mouth and breathed out, smoke billowing from his nostrils. It was not dissimilar to the manner in which Naomie had seemed to emit smoke earlier, but it had come from within her, as if she had fire in her lungs. Maybe she was meant to be some sort of dragon. Maybe they were both dragons.

It was a silly thought, but Tommy found it unusually pleasant for that very reason. He hadn't dreamt of anything so fanciful in a very long time. He hadn't dreamt of anything but gunfire and dirt for a very, very long time.

"You can't be so terrible; little brother likes you, after all. You were kind to him," Naomie said after a long silence, reaching up to brush wisps of hair out of her face.

"And when was that?" Tommy asked dubiously. If she'd just arrived here a few hours ago, she should have only seen him as he was about to shoot the horse in the head. That should hardly have inspired such confidence in his apparent humanity. His suspension of disbelief could only go so far.

Naomie scooped something pale and viscous—honey, it looked like—into the smaller mortar and then stirred it in. Then she reached over to fish out objects from her sack: a pouch of clean white dressings, a round wooden bowl, a flat spoon. "Something about trombones and tubas, I think. Little brother wasn't too clear on the specifics," she hummed, dipping white cloths into the larger mortar.

Tommy turned the words over in his head like a well-worn stone. If this were reality, he might have shot the girl on the spot purely on principle. The only creature to have heard him say this to the horse was the horse itself. If Naomie Young knew even this about him, then what else did she know?

But Miss Young was a witch, and this was just a dream. In a dream, it made perfect sense that a witch and her horse could know each other so well. And it was so characteristic of his own bloody brain to mock him for his occasional moments of softness. Tommy settled.

"I wouldn't say a horse is the best judge of character," he said, throwing his long dead cigarette out to the rain. He pinched another between his lips, and then turned to Naomie when he touched the still damp matchbox.

"I would say you're right," she agreed, sitting imperiously upon her hill of hay, two mortars in her lap and her shawl and skirt pooled around her in a wide circle. "A soft voice and gentle hands are enough for a horse to like you. They can't understand the complicated things humans use to judge each other, like laws or honor or what have you. But, you see, I don't care for those things either. I'll be kind to you because you were kind to little brother."

Having said her piece, Naomie finally looked back at him, straw braided through her ink-black curls like gold filaments. The lamplight caught against her glossy eyes; her irises glimmered around the black arbor of her pupils like the shining, rippling surface of a lake. She looked fey.

Of course, Tommy had never been one to be easily impressed. Irreverent as anything, he pinched a match between his long fingers and wagged it at her. "Would sure be _kind _of you to help me with this," he drawled.

Naomie's lower lip jutted out in a pout, immediately ruining the illusion. "There's no point in my being dramatic when you've no appreciation for spectacle," she complained. Nevertheless, she twisted to face him, bringing her hand up to her mouth. When Tommy struck the match, she pursed her lips and blew into her snapping fingers, as if to propel the friction of the click over to him.

The match ignited, and he lit the end of his cigarette. Nodding in thanks, Tommy took a slow drag and closed his eyes.

He was tired. He was so _fucking_ tired. But he couldn't allow himself to sleep. If you fell asleep in a dream, didn't that mean you would wake up in reality?

Tommy didn't want to wake up yet. Here, the hours moved with a lethargic, easy pace. The heavy rain that blanketed the city seemed to insulate the stables so thoroughly that it became its own microcosmic world. There were no ghosts of war stepping quietly in his shadow; no living men lurked on his doorstep with violence folded tightly into their fists. There was no fear, no anger, no vestiges of the war surviving through the masses of shambling, shellshocked veterans. Just a small island of warm light in the vast, dark night. Just him, a horse, and a girl.

Before the war, hadn't that been all he'd really wanted?

Such a time had passed, of course. The bloody war had come and gone, and it would linger in his bones until the day he died. But that just meant that Tommy had to cling to this dream with both hands until it came to its natural conclusion.

"What's his name?" Tommy asked, peeling open his drooping eyelids. Smoke drifted from his mouth in ponderous swells. "The horse. You must know."

"Of course," Naomie said, using the spoon to scrape out the last of the mixture from the small mortar to the wooden bowl. She unfolded to her feet and weaved through the mess of her things with little difficulty. "I named him when he was born. It's Bitti Prala."

"Little Brother," he translated, removing his fag from his mouth. Tommy didn't quite smile, but almost. Amusement was clear in the tilt of his brows, the slope of his mouth. "Right. That's why he's your 'little brother'."

"Well, that among other reasons. I helped his ma give birth to him, you see, and it's been maybe three or four years since then. From the moment of his birth until the day he was sent to the Lees, we never spent a day apart," she chattered, running a hand down the horse's flank and to the tied up leg.

Naomie put the bowl down and began to wrap the cursed foreleg and hoof with some of her anointed dressings. Then she found the other foot where the infection had spread and dressed that too.

When she straightened up again, the horse looked at her with large, adoring eyes and nudged her gently with its head. Naomie leaned in and kissed its cheek, her face the very picture of girlish sweetness. Anyone could see the close bond between them. After a moment, Naomie pulled away and held the bowl under the horse's mouth.

"_Ves'tacha_, take your medicine."

The horse snorted but obediently began lipping at the mush. Tommy tilted his head, fascinated at the sight. He had never seen a horse take medicine so placidly in his life. Usually, even the stoutest ponies seemed to become giraffes when presented with a medical mixture. What he was seeing now could not be explained as anything but witchcraft.

"I'm the youngest of my family, and I only have older siblings," Naomie continued, petting the horse with her free hand. "Prala was the closest I could get to ever being an older sibling myself, so I've always doted on him just as if he were my real little brother. Or at least," she said, her expression souring, "I did, until father lost a wager to the Lees. I can't believe they took him just to curse him into an early death! _Dirty dog fuckers_," she swore, slipping into Romany in her rage.

"_That's some mouth you've got on you_," Tommy replied, almost automatically following her switch in language. At her stunned face, a smirk slipped onto his lips, unbidden.

"_You're Roma? I thought you were just an Englishman!_" Naomie breathed, utterly floored.

"_Being an Englishman is more profitable. The blood is Romany, however_."

"_What family do you hail from?_"

His fingers tingled. The cigarette had burned itself almost to nothingness, and was close to burning him. Tommy tossed the butt out into the rain and took his time in answering.

"Shelby. I'm Thomas Shelby," he finally said, in English. His eyes traveled over her face, searching for recognition, wariness, fear, but found none. Only bright-eyed interest.

He smiled privately, darkly. Of course she would not know. This was supposed to be a precious and hard-begotten _good_ dream, after all. Here, only such pleasant, fanciful ideas should exist.

Here, and only here.

"_The Shelby clan? I've heard of the Lees and the Loveridges, the Boswells and the Herons, but I don't think I've heard of the Shelbys. Are you a small clan_?"

Tommy nodded slowly, and then thought of something Johnny Dogs had said several days ago, when they had gambled over the horse. On a whim, or perhaps in a lazy attempt to impress this imaginary gypsy girl, he said, "_Small, but not without history. It is said that my grandfather was a king, if that means anything at all_."

Naomie seemed to consider this, her brows scrunched up in thought. "_I think it doesn't really mean much except that he was popular among old people_," she said at long last.

Tommy allowed himself a smile at that. "_Right. But it also meant that he had power_."

"_Are you interested in power, then?_"

"_Everyone is interested in power_."

"Not me," Naomie said firmly. She didn't seem to realize she had spoken in English, as involved in their conversation as she was. Her hand had long stilled against the horse's neck.

Tommy glanced at her bags, at all the herbs and amulets and fetishes peering out of them. "That's only because you already have power."

She followed his gaze and nodded. "_I have a little sway over the natural world, that's true_," she acknowledged, switching back again with the thoughtless ease of a bilingual speaking to a fellow bilingual. "_But not over people_. _I can't make anyone do anything they don't want._"

"_I hear that that's what love magick is for_."

"Love charms and spells are all bogus, cons reserved for sacrilegious frauds," Naomie hissed with surprising vehemence. Her sudden scowl shaped her mouth into something puffed out and childish. Her body came alive with an unexpected burst of passion. "They are simply the tricks of cheats and swindlers on the stupid, the unsuspecting, or the gullible. There exists no such thing as a real love spell amongst true _chovhani_!"

Tommy did smile a little, then. "Yeah? Prove it," he drawled, tauntingly, carelessly. His eyes glittered with humour. "I'd wager you never even tried." Her mouth opened, closed. "That's right. You're sounding pretty untrustworthy yourself, eh?"

Naomie narrowed her eyes and stomped over to the nook where Tommy was lounged, her angry feet only barely missing the line of salt. Still smiling faintly, he leaned further forward to watch her face, which was aflame with agitation. "You take that back! I'm very trustworthy!" Naomie cried, bending in towards him with her fists on her hips. Her lips were pursed in a manner that was meant to be stern but looked more petulant than anything.

Tommy carefully wiped all humour from his mouth. "All wise women and witches can do love magick, and yet you can't, isn't that what you're saying? I'm starting to doubt if you're a witch after all," he said disparagingly. He couldn't help the amused gleam of his eyes, but Naomie was far too gone to notice.

"Don't you compare me to those—those charlatans who go around posturing—faking—_lying_—all to make a quick buck! I have some goddamn dignity, and I have self-respect—and—and I would never waste my talent on something so—stupid, all to just—" she sputtered, hands fluttering up into the air like tiny birds. The tassels of her shawl shook and fluttered with her. Tommy let out a quiet wisp of laughter at the sight and earned himself a gimlet eye.

"If it's all smoke and mirrors, what's the harm in trying?" he asked, sending her a provocative smirk. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

It amused him to see Naomie so riled up. Exasperation suited her, as if she had always been meant to be lively with some strong emotion. Tommy had challenged her without much thought, just to vex her, but now he was committed. Normally, he would never goad any sort of witch without a plan—that invited more danger than it was worth—but teasing Naomie was just too great of a sport. If he thought about it too deeply, thought about schemes and threats and consequences, it would ruin the whole thing.

Indeed, Tommy didn't want to think much at all. He was always fucking _thinking_. For once in his life, he wanted to just… not. In this rare moment of unrestraint, this rare peace of mind, it had to be fine to indulge himself and fool around with this wild little filly. It was only a dream; it would pose no danger.

"Are you even hearing me at all?" Naomie snapped, crossing her arms.

His grin grew wider. "Can't say I am, no."

"You are _such_ a—a—"

"Yeah? A what?" he prompted, drawing in even closer. There was barely any distance between them, now. When Tommy tilted his head up, a stray lock of her long hair brushed feather-soft against the arch of his cheek. "Let's hear it, then."

Naomie's eyes traveled. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she grasped desperately for an appropriately scathing word. At last she blurted, "A bloody rantallion!"

Tommy's brows shot up. Naomie's already pink face was immediately suffused with a vibrant red that spread slowly over the rest of her skin. His eyes tracked its progress as it spread lower and lower, down her neck, over her bare shoulders, into the low, wide collar of her bohemian blouse. And, presumably, even lower than that.

"Very hurtful," Tommy chuckled, eyes flicking back up at her disbelieving scoff. "I'm very hurt. No, really."

"You're mocking me," huffed Naomie, crossing her arms and glaring.

"Yeah, I am," he agreed, looking up at her through lowered lashes. From this distance, Tommy could see that underneath the dirt was hidden a faint constellation of real freckles across her nose and cheeks. And her eyes were not black as he'd thought, but a stormy gray. "You going to curse me now?"

Naomie bit her lower lip, looking deeply tempted. Tommy's gaze dropped to her rose-petal mouth and then away.

"No," she said unconvincingly, after a very telling pause. He breathed out another quiet laugh.

"How about something else, then?" Tommy said. Naomie eyed him dubiously and he replied with a grin, a playful flash of his teeth that disappeared in the space of a breath. It was an expression that did not often find itself on his face and did not last long when it did. He'd probably smiled more in the last several minutes than he had throughout the whole week. "A wager. Let's see what this love magick business is all about. You do a little spell on some poor old sod. He falls in love with you, I win. He doesn't, you win. Afterwards, you undo it. Simple and easy."

"I'm not going to cast anything on an unconsenting party just for a wager, no matter how hopeless the charm. My gran would beat me with a broom. She _always_ knows," Naomie informed him, very firmly. Her mouth puckered with a stubborn sullenness.

Tommy nodded thoughtfully. In the dim, soft light of the stables, everything looked hazy and surreal, Naomie most of all. The world was just a collection of blurred lines and soft edges. Like a fantasy, or a daydream.

His eyes dipped again to her lips, traced the sweet, fluid shape of them. It seemed that her mouth had more expression at any given moment than he had ever been capable of. Struck suddenly by the inkling of an impulse, Tommy spread his hands and tilted back his head, his brows arched in challenge. "I'm a consenting party, aren't I?"

Naomie squinted suspiciously at him, drawing up to her full height. She angled her own head back, examined him under her long, dark lashes. "Even so, I still don't see why I should take you up. I'd be using up precious time and supplies. You can't find most of these herbs in any old market, you know."

"Then I'd better make it worth your while, eh? What is it you want?"

"I…" Naomie began, and trailed off. Her eyes slid away from his, and her face turned a little sheepish. "When I realized little brother had been cursed, I didn't think things over very much. I rushed over without making any arrangements. I thought I could hide out in the stables without anyone noticing, but…" She gave Tommy a pointed look. He looked steadily back. "I couldn't take much money; I don't have anywhere to stay while treating him, and I don't know how I'll get back. I need… accommodations. Preferably something respectable and without men, or else it'll be my ma who's got the broom."

It was such a simple request he could have gotten it done in his sleep. Rather, that's exactly what would happen. Small Heath belonged to the Shelbys; no one would dare to deny him anything, even in a dream.

"Right. It'll take some doing, but I'm sure I can figure something out," Tommy said dryly, enjoying the private joke. "As for me…"

Tommy knew instinctively, immediately, the exact thing he wanted. He'd known since the moment he'd become aware of the dream. He'd known long before that.

"If I win the wager," said Tommy. "I want you to stay with me and keep the shovels out."

"The shovels?" Naomie asked, her brows turned up in confusion.

"The nightmares. The bad dreams. I want it all gone. I want to get some bloody sleep without France fucking around in my head every night. Can you do that?"

She nodded slowly. "Well, I can sure do that…" she said, and then trailed off.

Good. He needed to be free of that goddamned tunnel. Opium no longer helped, and the thought of being stuck in that hell every night for the rest of his life drove him mad. He needed the blessed relief of knowing he might be able to have restful sleep and good dreams, just like this, just like before the war. Even just one night a week. Even just one night a month. Even just one more night.

It was a shot in the dark that would require Tommy to fall in love with a figment of a dream—but so what? If it didn't work, it didn't work. Nothing was gained, but nothing was lost either.

But if it _did_ work. If it did work, if he _did_ fall in love, wouldn't that just mean that he would dream of Naomie again? And if he dreamt of her again, wouldn't that mean he wouldn't be dreaming of the shovels breaking through the wall?

Naomie would have his heart, but even if she decided to keep it, she couldn't leave him because of the conditions of the wager. She couldn't hurt him because she wasn't real. And Tommy would finally be able to get some proper fucking sleep. No more tunnels, no more shovels, no more goddamn screaming. He was a gambling man, and he was willing to gamble on this.

"I can do it, but… until when?" Naomie demanded, a frown gradually making its way across her face.

It figured she'd pick that up. No one would ever say that she wasn't born and bred Romany.

"Forever," said Tommy.

Warily, Naomie replied, "Forever is a long time."

He tilted a mocking brow and gave her a smile that he knew to be utterly infuriating. "Sounds to me you aren't as sure about your convictions as you claim."

"I _am_ sure," she snapped. "Love magick isn't bloody real, and that's a fact. It's just… Forever. That's a long time. I don't like how the stakes are so unbalanced. I've got way more to lose than I have to win."

"Alright," Tommy said, evenly. "Then let's balance them. How does this sound—you take the wager, I take care of you while you're in Small Heath, regardless of the result. If you win, I'll give you your little brother back. I'll even get the trailer and drive you two back meself."

Upon hearing this, Naomie's face became impossibly bright, her eyes coruscating with eager hope. "Really?" she asked, beaming.

He nodded. For just a moment, Tommy allowed himself to savour the brilliant, unadulterated joy being shared freely with him. Then he reminded himself that it wasn't real and the soft feeling firmed back into his regular sternness.

"Then we are in agreement as to the terms of the wager," Naomie said, not paying attention to his shift in mood. She spat in her hand and offered it to him. Tommy spat in his own and held it. They shook and she draped the corner of her shawl over their connected hands and bound it once. Quietly, she murmured, "So mote it be."

A thrill ran up Tommy's arm from the point of contact. For a long moment, they stared at each other, their palms remaining clasped. Tommy said nothing, just looked steadily at Naomie until she shifted and simmered and then burst into movement.

"Grass! I need—grass," she said, hastily detaching from him. He allowed it and watched her fly out of the stables into the pouring rain.

After that, Naomie became all business. She returned quickly, dripping wet and a blade of grass between her fingers. This she put in her mouth, and she turned to face the east. "_Where the sun goes up, my love shall be by me_," she hummed, under her breath. She turned to the west and continued, "_Where the sun goes down, there by him I'll be_."

Naomie then took the blade of grass from her mouth and tore it into two equal lengths. "Eat this," she said, handing one half over. Tommy raised his brows but obligingly slipped it between his lips. She looked at him until he swallowed it, his adam's apple bobbing. Then she hurried past him to her bags.

"Where's the holy wort?" Naomie muttered, rifling through her collection of things and picking up a labeled tin. She poured some of its contents into a bowl of water, where she also dipped a piece of cloth. Then she returned to the small pile of esoteric objects, mumbling, "I _know_ I've got violets in here… thyme… saffron… yarrow… valerian…"

Upon locating all of her herbs, she turned to one of the sacks, from which she found a thin knife in a leather sheath, a long red ribbon, and a heart-shaped stone the size of a fingernail. Once they were assembled, she dunked both of her hands into the bowl of water. Then she took out the damp cloth, wrung it, and spread it out on her lap.

Naomie took a deep breath and lowered her head, knife ready in hand. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold air. Her breath drifted around her face in soft, thin clouds. Her wild dark hair spilled over her shoulders and down the back of her yellow shawl. A moment frozen in time.

Tommy cleared his throat.

Finally, Naomie began to move.

"_Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine_," she hummed, shearing a lock of her hair and allowing it to fall into the cloth. "_Or leave a kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine_." Swaying in place, Naomie slowly reached out to pluck up the charmed half-blade of grass and add it into her lap. Then the stone, then the holy wort, then the rest of the herbs. All the while she continued to sing, and the more she continued to sing, the more her voice took on a dreamy, liquid quality.

"_The thirst that from the soul doth rise  
Doth ask a drink divine;  
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,  
I would not change for thine_.  
_I sent thee late a rosy wreath,  
Not so much hon'ring thee  
As giving it a hope that there  
It could not withered be;  
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,  
And sent'st it back to me,  
Since when it grows and smells, I swear  
Not of itself, but thee_."

The last note quivered in the air and then faded, the spell complete.

Tommy did not know when he had closed his eyes. He blinked groggily back into attention. A small white pouch that had been tied around with a red ribbon was being extended to him. Fingers brushing against Naomie's cool palm, Tommy took the sachet and held it up to appraise it. Even from half an arm away, it perfumed the air with a smell both sweet and floral. It did not, however, instill any particular feelings within him.

"It's a love sachet," Naomie explained, wiping her damp hands on her skirt. "I hear it's supposed to gradually to increase your affection for me. It's meant to be kept near you, in your pocket in the day and on your pillow at night. Once the smell fades completely, then you know whatever magick was there has run its natural course. If you don't feel any affection towards me through all that time, then I win the wager. If you feel affection for me but it disappears once the sachet has lost its potency, then you do."

So it was temporary. Good. That was good.

"You seem to know a lot for someone who thinks love magick is rubbish," Tommy commented wryly, watching as her face inflamed again.

"Well—the _baba_s at the fairs always do this kind of thing," Naomie said, pursing her lips defensively. "I was just curious… Anyway! You mustn't let anyone else touch it. If the charm actually works, the imprint of their skin may sway your heart. I'm not too sure on this point, but it's simply not a good idea."

"And if I should love you even after the smell fades?" Tommy asked, struck by a sudden morbid curiosity.

She gave him a look as if the answer was obvious. "If your affection remains even after the sachet becomes impotent, then it was not due to a spell. Isn't that my win?"

"Could mean your spell is more powerful than you know. Then it's mine."

Naomie fell quiet and considered this careless remark with more thought than he expected, her brows puckered into a very serious little frown. "If that happens, then… we can go see my gran. She'll know if you're under an enchantment, and she'll be able to fix it."

Naomie was saying this as if it wasn't a new occurrence; overpowering a spell appeared to be an issue she had struggled with in the past. This was not very reassuring.

Tommy stared gravely at the little witch until she began to squirm. "But, you know, that's so very unlikely, you don't have to worry," she babbled, shuffling nervously. "Since love magick isn't real. You just… make sure you don't actually fall in love, then there won't be confusion. If there's ever a problem, I'll find a solution for it, and it won't have been an issue at all. Um, and, so… I'm going to go cleanse little brother now."

Naomie scampered off to the horse, and Tommy let her be. He lifted the sachet again, examining it more closely. It was round and plump, still damp with herbal water. The white cloth was soft and patterned with tiny purple flowers; it looked like it had originally been part of a woman's handkerchief. The top was kept closed by a red ribbon tied into a neat bow. It looked shockingly girlish. Good that it wasn't real, or his brothers would all erupt into paroxysms of laughter and rib him into madness.

He brought it near his face and breathed in. The intense floral scent drifted into the corners of his lungs and seemed to fill him up from within, not unlike the smoke from his cigarettes. It was a pleasant smell, and Tommy could feel his shoulders relaxing. He breathed deep again, and his eyelids drooped. He breathed again, and his hand fell slowly to his lap.

His eyes shivered and blurred; the dream shivered and blurred too.

Everything after that existed to Tommy only in vague impressions and fragmented snapshots:

Naomie hanging a cross around the horse's neck—Naomie sprinkling something on its back—Naomie kneeling in a circle of salt—Naomie bent in supplication. And Naomie's hypnotic, melting voice chanting the same prayer, over and over, chanting over and over, until it lilted into a song that only he and God could hear—

". . . _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen._

"_Behold the handmaid of the Lord: Be it done unto me according to Thy word. Hail Mary ._ . ."

Despite his efforts, Tommy could feel himself slipping into a trance. His mind drifted like the tide, lapping against the shore of awareness with only the sound of Naomie's voice to anchor him.

". . . _And the Word was made Flesh: And dwelt among us. Hail Mary. Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ _. . .

". . . _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God _. . ."

Eventually, Tommy released the anchor. He sank, formless, into the magnetic eddy of his exhaustion.

He slept.

And he did not wake until hours later, still in the stables, a crick in his neck and a shawl over his shoulders, with the slow, dawning realization that perhaps the gypsy witch had not been a dream after all.

.

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* * *

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**Notes —**

Immovable object Thomas Shelby, meet unstoppable force Naomie Young.

The foreign words are Romany (gypsy language) and their translations are all provided by Tommy in-text. Except maybe chov'hani/chovhani (which means witch in Romany).

Birthday gift for my number one loveliest bun, bri. Cross-posted on AO3.


	2. Coin Toss

**cross my palm with silver** (line our pockets with good fortune)

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* * *

**II. Coin Toss**

* * *

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Thomas shuddered awake to the sound of his uncle's voice ringing out from elsewhere in the yard. His hands dragging into fists on his thighs, he sat up with a sudden jerk and felt something soft slide from his shoulders down to his lap.

He forced his eyelids to wrench open.

It was early morning. Tommy was in the stables, sitting on a low stool. He'd fallen asleep in the nook next to the entrance, back against the wall, shoulder leaned sideways against a post.

The sounds of men working in the yard—swearing, grunting, yelling—echoed vaguely into the room. His neck and back were sore as all hell. His legs were numb with the spring evening chill, and from sitting in the same position for hours. The light streaming in from the open doorway next to him was bright, if pale and gray.

A little ways away, the horse stared at him with its wide, round eyes. It was still tied up in its stall. There was salt spread all around it, and around Tommy, in unbroken lines.

He glanced down. Pooled upon his thighs was an unfamiliar shawl, wide enough to cover him from shoulder to hip. It was a young woman's shawl, pastel yellow with fanciful white embroidery and little trembling tassels hanging from the edges.

This was… definitely reality. It was definitely reality, wasn't it? And yet—

He hesitated for a moment, and then swiftly lifted the shawl from his lap. Something small and round flew out and fell to the floor by his feet. He picked it up.

Hanging from his fingers was little white sachet, smelling of perfume and flowers.

Tommy immediately dropped it. It landed noiselessly onto the shawl piled upon his legs.

"Fuck," he rasped, dragging rough hands over his face and then pushing them up into his temples. He blinked blearily down at the shawl and the sachet. "_Fuck_."

Drawn by the sound of his voice, Charlie entered the stables and stopped short in the doorway with a look of bewilderment. He stared at the horse, stared at the ground, and then stared at Tommy, slumped over against a post. "The hell are you still doing in here, Tommy? What's all this on the floor?"

"Salt," grunted Tommy, blinking furiously to get the sleep out of his eyes. And, hopefully, his brain. He scrounged around in his pocket for his cigarettes and scrabbled with the matches until one lit.

Blessed tobacco. It hit his brain like a shot, ushering away the fog blanketing his mind.

"Salt in circles, cross on the neck of a horse, dried goat dung on the floor," Charlie listed, glancing around slowly. "It looks like a bloody _chovhani _ritual."

Tommy didn't even look at his uncle, still transfixed by the object sitting innocent in his lap. He had half a mind to throw it into the fire.

Charlie waited for Tommy to reply, but the silence stretched on. Unnerved by the unspoken implications, Charlie gave him a hard look. "Tommy. Tell me there wasn't a witch in here. A wise woman is one thing, but you know you can't mess with witches unless you want to risk bankruptcy or a black curse. The devil knows you'll dig yourself straight into hell without any help."

Tommy sighed and finally lifted his head. "Did you see a woman around the yard, Charlie? Small, dark hair. No stockings."

"Damn it, Tommy," Charlie barked. "I thought you were going to put that horse down, not call awitch. Who knows what infernal hoodoos she could leave in my yard."

Tommy looked steadily at his uncle, cigarette hanging between his lips. "Did you?" he asked, in a low, even voice.

Charlie's mouth thinned in frustration, but eventually he answered, "No. I didn't see any woman around here. Just my men."

Another sigh dragged itself from Tommy's throat, accompanied by a long stream of smoke. The witch herself was missing, but it wasn't a dream. The evidence was all here, laid out in front of his eyes.

It wasn't a dream. He'd made a promise—carelessly, but a promise was a promise—and now he'd have to keep it. He looked at the sachet again, and the urge to throw it into the fire swept over him once more, the impulse even more powerful now. Throw the damned thing away, tell Miss Young she'd won the wager, send her on her way with the bloody horse.

Striking a wager with a gypsy witch, a _chovhani_, and willingly making himself the target of a love spell—Tommy must have been out of his fucking mind.

Yeah, actually. He _had _been out of his fucking mind, and he knew it as a right certainty.

A dream? What _fucking _dream? It must have been the opium lingering in his blood, the heavy, growing tumor that had become of his exhaustion, the overwhelming dread at the thought of shooting the horse. Any one of those things, or all of them. It was one thing to be magically coerced into feeling love for a girl who only existed in a dream, and an entirely different thing for that girl to be real, to be an unknown and potentially dangerous entity.

Tommy couldn't treat this stinking, heaping mess he'd made for himself lightly. Naomie Young was a witch, a real one, and she was powerful. She'd proven that last night.

Or—had she?

"Charlie," Tommy called urgently, carefully using the shawl to gather up the charmed pouch and getting to his feet. He dropped his finished fag to the floor and ground his heel on it. "Call Curly. Tell him to check on the horse. Hurry."

Charlie shook his head but moved nonetheless. He left and returned quickly, Curly in tow.

"H-hi, Tom. That's a—a nice scarf," Curly greeted, in his anxiously cheerful way.

Tommy nodded at him and gestured to the horse. "There's no time to waste, Curly. Check his legs, his heart. Has the horse gotten better?"

Curly saw the horse, still standing proudly in its stall, and his face brightened. "Yes, yes, Tom," he said, immediately bustling over to it and running his hands over its flank. "I'll check, I will. Yes, yes."

Tommy watched intently as Curly began a speedy examination of the horse, surveying its hoof, its leg, its chest, pulling a number of instruments from shelves and hooks to assist him. Uncle and nephew waited in tense silence for the verdict.

"You're okay!" Curly cried at last, kissing the horse's muzzle. "Good boy. You're o-okay, yeah. Yeah."

Tommy's only reaction to this news was a long, slow blink. It seemed Miss Young was as powerful as she'd promised after all.

"You said the curse would reach his heart by today. Where is it now?" he said, still lingering within the salt circle. He needed Curly to assure him the horse was fine so that he could confidently leave it, or else he would have to leave the bullet on the stool. If he ruined the horse's treatment before it was finished, he risked being shackled with a curse for the trouble. And he had no time to deal with gypsy curses right now.

"Gone, Tom," Curly assured him, nodding furiously and running his gentle hands down the horse's neck. "All gone."

Tommy nodded back and left the salt circle with a loping stride. He stuck a hand into his pocket, the shawl slung over his wrist and the sachet cradled within. "The horse is healthy?" he asked, approaching Curly. Tommy's hand absently reached to rub under the horse's jaw.

"Not c-completely, no, no. But he will be!"

"Course he's okay," Charlie snorted from behind him, disgruntled. "Tommy called in a damned _chovhani_ just to fix him."

Curly's eyes went wide and he began to cut the air with his hand as if to cut through any bad magicks that may be near. "A w-witch, Tom? A w-w-witch, here?"

"I didn't call her," Tommy said tiredly, his eyes sliding to his uncle. "She came for the horse. Calls him brother."

"Oh, fucking hell," said Charlie, looking stunned. He made a face as if he couldn't figure out whether to burst into laughter or have an apoplexy from all the stress. "It figures you'd find yourself a witch's horse, and get him cursed at that. Does she blame you?"

"Nah, just the Lees."

"And thank God for that. A witch. A horror to offend, but you share a common enemy; she could be useful as an ally, if you can manage to keep her still long enough," noted Charlie.

"Not a problem, she'll be here for a while yet," Tommy replied, pulling out another cigarette and bringing it to his lips. He lit the end and shook the match to put it out. "We've an arrangement."

Charlie stilled and stared at Tommy, hit by some sudden realization. "Did you plan this?" he asked, gravely.

Tommy just looked at his uncle and took a drag of his cigarette in lieu of answering. The answer being, of course: not in the fucking least.

Normally Tommy deserved any accusation of scheming that might have been thrown at him, but Charlie was greatly overestimating him in this instance. How could Tommy have planned any of this? How could he have known of Naomie Young's existence before she'd appeared before him? On top of that, he had been so convinced that she wasn't real, and then so shaken to realize she was, that the idea hadn't even occurred to him until just now.

It wasn't exactly something Tommy could admit to, though. Better to let Charlie think what he wanted. This whole affair with the witch was completely out of character for Tommy, and he doubted his uncle would believe him even if he said anything.

Charlie took his silence as confirmation and shook his head. "You're playing a dangerous game, Tommy. The Lee tribe and that mad-dog Inspector were bad enough. A witch on top of that? Might as well just throw in the Commies and the Fenians for good measure."

Tommy was reminded, then, of Ada's current situation, and his face darkened. Depending on how Frankie reacted to the pregnancy, the Commies would follow. And the IRA would come sniffing for the guns sooner or later.

"Just a matter of time," Tommy said. He closed his eyes and rolled his cigarette between his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps he _was_ taking on too much at once. But it couldn't be helped; they'd all _happened_ at once.

He'd deal with it. He always dealt with it. This was necessary if he wanted the Shelbys to move up in the world.

"But w-where i-is the witch, Tom?" Curly cut in nervously, craning his head and glancing around as if she would pop up from the shadows at any point. He was still slicing through the air with his hands.

Tommy exhaled a cloud of smoke and opened his eyes. Indeed. Where the bloody hell _was_ Miss Young?

"Hello," a voice called brightly. As if summoned, Naomie stepped through the stable entrance. There was a satchel slung over her shoulder, filled with freshly plucked plants. She was wearing the clothes from last night but with a new shawl of green and blue. Spotting Tommy turning to look at her, her mouth curved into a dimpled smile. "Thomas Shelby, you're awake! How was your sleep?"

"Naomie," Tommy greeted, nodding back. "It was fine." He was surprised to find that he meant it; despite the uncomfortable position, despite the chill of the night, despite being in the presence of a strange intruder, he had slept astoundingly well. Disturbingly well.

"Of course it was; I took the liberty of adding herbs for restful sleep to the mix. It won't interfere, but I thought the sachet might as well _do_ something, since it's useless otherwise," Naomie said, looking very satisfied with herself. The dimples in her cheeks deepened. It was strange; he hadn't realized she had dimples, last night, but now he couldn't stop noticing them. "I usually charge lots for that kind of handiwork, but this time I won't charge you. Didn't I say I'd be kind?"

"You did say," Tommy agreed, gravely. His face was serious, but he could feel a thread of amusement flit through him. "Far too early to assume you'll win, though."

She strode to the horse. "But I will," she said, nodding with an air of great self-assurance. As Naomie passed Tommy, her skirts swished carelessly against his legs and her soft shawl dragged against the rougher material of his coat sleeve. When she stood next to him, he became aware of a sweet, lush smell. If he could identify it at all, he would say it was akin to the smell of flowers, or fresh grass, or the spring breeze. From picking herbs, he supposed.

"Good morning, little brother," Naomie cooed, running a finger over the horse's muzzle. She bent in close, her long, curly hair draping over Tommy's still outstretched arm, and kissed the horse's nose twice. "Are you feeling better? Of course you are, _ves'tacha_, I spent the whole night making sure of it."

The corners of Tommy's mouth twitched. Naomie seemed to be in the habit of asking questions she already knew the answer to, or perhaps that was just due to her overwhelming confidence in her own abilities. It wasn't unwarranted, but it was certainly amusing.

He stepped away to give her space to fuss over the horse, and found himself by his uncle, who looked perplexed. Brows high on his forehead, Charlie said, "She's… young," as if that was a very startling turn of events.

Indeed she was, but Tommy expected that his uncle was not simply pointing out her age.

Naomie looked nothing like what one would expect of a _chovhani_. She was not respectably old, nor did she have the dark, dramatic attire or the cabalistic deportment of a typical witch. There was no kohl around her eyes to make her seem more mysterious, no heavy rings on her fingers or chiming bracelets on her wrists to add an impression of ritualistic power. In the light of day, that sense of the esoteric and arcane that had so struck Tommy last night had all but disappeared. Now, Naomie simply appeared to be an ordinary girl of perhaps twenty years of age, with mannerisms that only made her seem younger. It was hard to see her and think, _witch_.

"Yes I am," Naomie replied, also hearing Charlie's comment. She turned to face them, looking pleasantly surprised. "How did you know? I'm Naomie Young."

She extended her hand and Charlie took it firmly, his face carefully cleaned of all the reservations that Tommy knew he must have had. "Charlie Strong," he said. "I own this yard."

While introductions were made all around, including to a nervous Curly, Tommy plucked the sachet from within the depths of the shawl and slipped it into his pocket. It made him uneasy to think of keeping a love charm so near, but if it would allow him to sleep as well as he had last night, that wasn't something he would turn his nose to. It was at least less harmful than opium, and more effective, too.

"Accommodations, Naomi?" Tommy called, cutting into the conversation. Naomie nodded eagerly, bidding farewell to Charlie and Curly. She extracted her leather bag from the hay, slung it over her shoulder, and hurried to his side.

They set off without further ado. Tommy wanted to get home as soon as possible, to avoid many people witnessing him in his state of disrepair, but seeing Naomie struggling to keep up with his long strides, he slowed a touch. Wordlessly, he reached out and pulled the heavy bag off her shoulder and onto his own—not because he had suddenly decided to become gallant, but rather because it was impeding them.

"Thank you. I'm spent," Naomie whispered, leaning in close as if imparting some great secret. Tommy inclined his head so as to bring his ear nearer to her mouth. "Haven't had a wink of sleep in hours. I could sleep in a barn, right now."

"You won't have to," he said quietly, glancing to her face and realizing that she had washed it at some point. "I already said I'd take care of you."

She dimpled up at him. They may have both been gray, but Small Heath could never hope to be as clear and bright as her eyes. Tommy's eyes traced over that open face, the gentle arc of her brows, the straight slope of her nose, the spread of freckles over her cheeks.

In the faint daylight, without dirt smudging her face or straw in her hair, Naomie looked like just another pretty young woman he might see at the fair, or on a street. While she lacked polish and had none of the posh elegance of the Garrison's barmaid, something about Naomie's sunny, uncomplicated countenance made the eye linger.

He did not want to notice her, but he couldn't help it—she was really quite lovely.

The muscles in Tommy's jaw clenched. As if burned, he immediately removed his hand from his pocket, where it had been closed around the sachet. He looked away from Naomie and sped up his pace again.

They made their way through dim back alleys and dirty side streets to get to his flat in Garrison Lane. Tommy stalked forward with the confidence of knowing that no one would dare to stop him and Naomie followed behind him without hesitation, the thought that he might bring her to some grisly fate not seeming to even occur to her. Their fast clip got them to the front door at no time at all.

"Is this where I'll stay?" asked Naomie, appraising the grungy building curiously. Around them, the sparse number of people passing around in the street gave the two of them a wide berth.

"No, this is me," Tommy told her. "I have some business. You can come in, or wait out here."

He could see the interest leave her face. Her eyes traveled away from the building to the pedestrians down the street, flitting from hunched body to body. "I'll wait out here," Naomie said distractedly, her gaze zeroing in on the red, swollen hands of a woman who was determinedly looking at the ground.

Tommy nodded and went to clean up. It took him barely any time at all, but when he came out, Naomie was no longer in front of his door.

He scanned the nearby street and found her by another building, where the woman with swollen hands soon exited. Tommy stood in place and watched them, taking the time to light another cigarette. There was an exchange of hands: money from the woman for a small tin from Naomie's small herb satchel. Nodding at each other, they both turned to leave.

They spotted him staring straight at them at the same time. The woman jumped and bowed her head, but Naomie hastened to Tommy's side, beaming. He said nothing, only lifted a brow at her in question.

Naomie smiled and put the money—fifteen shillings, which must have been at least a few days worth of wages—into her satchel. She was being uncharacteristically tight-lipped about her transaction with the woman, but Tommy thought he knew what had occurred. After all, you couldn't really call yourself Roma before you sold your first overpriced trinket to some unsuspecting _gadze_. After that, it was just a matter of finding your next victim.

"You look awfully handsome in those clothes. Very important," Naomie said, boldly looking him up and down.

If an attractive woman was looking at him, Tommy saw no reason why he should not return the favour as it suited him. He didn't say anything in reply, only plucked his fag from his lips and returned the look, his eyes dragging obscenely over her whole body. There was nothing much to see, on account of all her clothing being so loose and draping, but it conveyed his point well enough.

Thomas Shelby was not a gentleman by any definition; if pushed, he would push back, harder and dirtier.

Under his lingering, hooded gaze, Naomie neither blushed nor shied away. Rather she seemed to find it amusing, doing a little twirl for him with a high, floating laugh. Her skirt flared out around her knees and her shawl fluttered open under her arms, tassels flying. He could see the dip of her waist where her blouse tucked into her skirt, the smooth lines of her calves and the delicate shape of her ankles. Her knees were flushed a rosy pink, and he suspected this was not from rouge, but from long hours of kneeling and praying.

"Well?" Naomie asked, as she finished her spin and her clothes settled back down around her. "Am I handsome as well?"

Tommy lowered his lashes and peered at her expectant face thoughtfully. Her almost child-like mannerisms were rather charming, in their own way. There was no doubt that she had known a lot of affection from those around her.

"Very handsome," he finally said. Her cocksure grin almost engendered a smile in him, but he knew he could not spend all day entertaining her. Tommy was, as she had noted last night, a busy man. He gestured down the street with his head and began to walk. "Come."

They headed to the nicer part of Small Heath, although 'nice' was only relative. It was near enough that he'd be able to keep a close eye on her, but far enough from the rabble to be more respectable than most.

Along the way to the boarding house, Naomie chattered on and off about her plans for the horse, supplemented by commentary on the interesting characters they passed by. It appeared she did not have the habit of visiting larger cities often.

He found her enthusiasm rather curious; it made all the more stark the differences between their upbringings. To Tommy, the citizens of Small Heath were just small, filthy cogs in the large, filthier machine that was Birmingham. To Naomie, they were all endlessly fascinating in their own ways, and she did not hesitate to tell him so.

She did not hesitate much to tell him anything, it seemed, and she did not seem to mind that his contributions to the conversation mostly consisted of silence, smoke, and the occasional thoughtful hum. Naomie was perfectly capable of chatting all on her own with barely any input on his part.

This was, of course, a very welcome state of affairs—Tommy's reticence was partly because he was sifting through every grain of information proffered to him. Naomie Young may not have been very mysterious, but she was still a mystery, at least until he looked into her background.

And after he set her up at a respectable lodging house, that was precisely what he planned to do.

* * *

Naomie set down her herb satchel and shawl on a chair and looked around the modest room she had been directed to. She already knew she liked it without even having stayed the night. Simply the fact that she would not have to share anything with any of her many older sisters endeared her to her new lodgings. The place had few furnishings—a bed, a tall wardrobe, a vanity table, and a squat little stove—but that was already more than she was used to.

Naomie was looking forward to getting to know the place. She'd never had a wardrobe before; caravans weren't generally very conducive to keeping them.

To provide some cheer to the sparse room, someone had added a vase with some nodding white lilies to the windowsill and a pot of citronella by the door. Citronella, to keep away the gnats. That was quite clever of whoever had done it; probably the landlady, she decided.

The landlady, whom Naomie had met earlier, was a strict looking English woman of distinguished height and waistline. Or at least, she'd been strict-looking when Naomie had first tripped into the establishment. When the woman saw Thomas Shelby enter next, any sternness dissipated like water on a hot pan and was replaced with a great degree of anxiety. She had immediately rushed forward to greet him, and the two had fallen into a hushed conversation where Thomas—or Tom, or Tommy, or whatever people around here called him—informed the woman that Naomie would be borrowing a room for an indefinite period, and the woman could only manage to say, _Of course Mr Shelby, of course_.

It was altogether a very quick, very short discussion. Perhaps his tone could have suggested that Thomas was coaxing her, but the landlady did not seem to need much coaxing. Whenever he said anything, she agreed right away, without even pausing to consider it.

Upon conclusion of this one-sided discussion, they'd all been ushered to the room Naomie was in now, and Thomas had taken a good look around before he'd wordlessly approved it by dropping her bag on the floor. Afterwards, when he left, the landlady had looked at Naomie as if she was a curse that the devil himself had sent. Without a single word of welcome, she had left a ring of keys on the table and beat a hasty exit.

That was fine. It invited bad luck to live in a home where the host did not welcome you, but Naomie was confident that she could convince the landlady to come around to her eventually, whether by her personal brand of charm or by the generous gift of some tincture or other. Currently, she found herself too busy with setting up her new accommodations to bother. There was much to do.

She prayed, first, for blessings against burglary, fire, and misfortune, and then set up small hand mirrors on the windowsill and opposite the door so as to reflect the negative energy of those who might disrupt the harmony of her abode. Dried violets were added to the vase of lilies, and a little jar of St. John's Wort hung from the window; spearmint was slipped into her pillow, and neat bunches of holy wort, witch hazel twigs and willow bark, tied up with string, were added to all four corners.

This task complete, Naomie stepped back and considered her handiwork. She would have also liked to spread borders of salt around all openings, but she thought it might be rather inconvenient to have salt constantly underfoot—and invite the landlady's ire besides—so she had settled for laying out lines of stones collected from the seashore. When the rest of her luggage was brought over from the stables, as she had been promised, Naomie would put up her cross and all the necessary talismans. For now, this would be enough.

* * *

It felt like Naomie had barely closed her eyes when she was awoken by a hunger pang so harsh the pain made her curl into a tight ball.

She scrunched her eyes closed and laid very still, attempting to go back to sleep.

Hunger pierced through her again, sharper than before.

She ignored it, trying to sink back into the nice dream she'd been having about galloping down a field on little brother's back and winning a race—then her stomach rebelled at the idea, clenching so hard it knocked her breathless.

She was hungry.

She wanted to sleep.

She was hungry.

She wanted to sleep.

She was _fucking_ hungry.

**SLEEP**.

...

She had to pee.

With a long, drawn-out groan of frustration, Naomie finally sat up. "Traitor," she hissed at her belly. It gurgled back vindictively.

Incoherent rage was enough to power her through to the water closet and then to the dining room, where she found… nothing. There was no food there, and she either couldn't find the kitchen or its door had been locked for the night.

Outside, the sky was already black. Naomie had slept the whole day away. Cities at night were dangerous, she'd been told, but she was too hungry to heed the warning, and she'd never been very good at being cautious anyway. She retrieved her shawl and her satchel, locked all doors, and went out into the dark street in search of food.

The entire journey was, she found, appalling and fascinating in equal measure. Although the street immediately around her boarding house was quiet enough, the further she walked, the more she became witness to an increasing level of moral degeneracy. Despite the late hour, there were people yelling, brawling, vomiting, and even fornicating out in the open, without any degree of shame at all. The streets and all the people on them were dirty and uncouth, and they stunk of some strange, indefinable stench.

Still, she watched them with her eyes wide open and her head on a swivel. It was a novel experience for her, who had grown up in various parts of the countryside under a doting father, a fiercely catholic mother, eight protective older siblings, and a powerful grandmother who had decided Naomie was the apple of her eye from birth. No one in the tribe wanted to cross her father, and her grandmother even less.

One would expect that witnessing humanity at its most foul would be enough to kill Naomie's appetite and that she would thus be able to return to her room and to blissful slumber. Not so. Her hunger only grew the longer it took for her to locate her next meal, and eventually she gave up on finding a market or restaurant that was still open. Instead she found herself entering the nearest pub—of which there were many, and all brightly lit.

Choosing one that looked less dismal than the rest, Naomie entered through the large wooden doors with the sense of passing a portal into a new world. She heard, first, the unending roar of drunken male voices, punctuated by clinking glasses and thumping bottles. Then followed the stink of sweat and smoke, then she became aware of the dim lights, the sticky floors, the scuffed furniture, the heaving mass of bodies.

Naomie looked and looked her fill, drank it all in, and found nothing lacking.

Satisfied, she stepped through the crowd, which rushed and jostled all around her but never quite touched her, and came up to the counter where a man was pouring frothing drinks. Her wide-eyed curiosity must have attracted his attention, for he put down the glass in his hand and turned from his waiting customers to study her.

"Can I help you, lass?" the bartender asked, a perturbed frown beginning to break on his face. "Are you lost?"

"Do you sell any food here?" Naomie asked, crossing her arms over the bar and leaning against it. It wasn't very comfortable, as the counter was high and reached all the way up to her chest, but all the stools were taken.

Hesitantly, the man nodded. Then he clarified, as if afraid she might get the wrong idea and decide his was a respectable establishment, "Just some ale snacks; chips, pickled eggs, pig trimmings and the like."

"Then yes," said Naomie, offering him a smile. "You certainly _can_ help me. I'd like two of everything you just mentioned. And a mild," she added as an afterthought, recalling that this was a pub and it would look quite strange not to have a drink at hand. It would be better to fit in wherever possible, she thought.

At this, the bartender looked at Naomie as if she had spouted horns. "This is a pub, where men come to get drunk," he explained, as if she were particularly slow. "It isn't a place for an unaccompanied young miss like you to have your meals, 'specially not at this time of night. Go home, lass, before anything happens." To punctuate his words, his eyes flickered over her head at the rowdy crowd of working-class men hollering over the tables and bumping into each other.

A flash of surprise darted across his face: none of them were looking at her. Naomie knew this even without turning to see. Most likely, none of them had even noticed her. She'd be a poor excuse for a witch if she couldn't even manage such a basic thing, or so Gran would have said.

But then his eyes darted to the side, and a resigned Just-As-I-Expected expression came upon him.

"Shut up and get the woman her food," said a gruff voice from the next seat over. "And you, fuck off. What kinda manners is that, not giving a lady your seat? Go on! Get."

The man in the stool directly next to her scrambled off of his seat, his drink sloshing over the rim of his glass. He rushed unsteadily to a different part of the pub. The bartender also hurried away, with a crisp, "Right away, Mr Shelby."

Naomie gave a long, slow blink as she processed the name. She took the seat that had been so generously cleared for her and turned to the man who had spoken.

Mr Shelby was a man with a narrow, weathered face, a heavy brow ridge, and a thick moustache. A lock of slick hair curled around his right cheek, and a thin, healing scar marked his other. She could not find much resemblance between him and Thomas—except for the colour of his eyes, which were a lovely, dusky blue.

The thumb of the hand that held his glass was in a splint. It seemed he had only recently gotten out of a fight.

"Thank you," Naomie said, smiling at him so that her dimples became extra visible. "I haven't eaten much in the last couple of days and I'm absolutely famished. I don't know what I would have done if he'd chased me out. Collapsed on the street from hunger, maybe."

His alcohol-hazed eyes perused her face at length and then traveled down her body. When he leaned in close, she could smell the booze on his breath. "Good thing I was here, then. It's not safe for a girl like you to be going around alone at night," Mr Shelby said, gesturing vaguely with the empty cup in his hand. Then he added, with an ironic smirk, "City's gone mad. Hooligans and gangsters run everything, and the coppers don't bat an eye."

"I see. Should I be worried?" asked Naomie, not very worried but—indeed—very interested. The bartender brought over her order and beat a swift retreat. Neither of them paid him any mind.

"If you're asking, you must be from outta town. Nothing's gonna happen to you now you're with me," replied Mr Shelby, with a healthy helping of arrogance. He tried to take another sip of his glass, before he realized that nothing was left. "They wouldn't dare."

She was not precisely _with_ him, but Naomie did not argue the point. Rather she looked at his crisp white shirt with its shiny metal sleeve garters, his waistcoat and its modishly attached pocket watch, and his gray peaked cap, which hid in its brim something that glinted in the light. It was the exact same kind of cap that Thomas had carried.

Most men that she had seen so far in Small Heath did not dress half as well. Just the name might have been a coincidence, but the similar manner of attire implied some sort of relationship. Mr Shelby was too young to be Thomas's father, but a brother or cousin, maybe…

Naomie dug around in her satchel and pulled out a labeled tin. "Give me your hand," she demanded, putting her own palm-up on the bar. Mr Shelby gave her a confused look, a little unsteady from all the whiskey he must have drunk until now, but helpfully gave her his hand. She shook her head at it. "No, the other one."

With much more caution, he detached his injured hand from his glass and extended it to her.

"Whoever splinted this did a good job," Naomie began, holding it up and appraising his thumb. It was broken. Without warning, she set his hand down on the bar and started to unwrap the bandages. "But I can do better."

Mr Shelby flinched, tried to draw back his arm. She held on tightly to his wrist. "What are you—"

"Keep still, Mr Shelby," she said, patting the back of his hand. "As my thanks to you, I'll make sure it heals up in a snap."

Warily, but probably not warily enough, he watched Naomie as she opened up the tin and began to apply a charmed green salve to the inflamed, discoloured skin around the injury. She could see the moment he registered the cooling effect of the mint: a telling flicker of his eyelids, followed promptly by a loosening of his shoulders. She wrapped the thumb back up with its splint, mumbling a simple healing charm under her breath.

"There," said Naomie, letting go of the hand and finally allowing him to take it back. "Doesn't it feel better already?"

"Guess it does," Mr Shelby agreed, with no small amount of wonder. He brought his thumb close to his face to inspect it. "What are you, then? Some sort of apothecary? A wise woman?"

"A _chovhani_," she informed him cheerily, sticking a few chips into her mouth. He became very still, his eyes shooting to her. Naomie nodded at his startled look. If he knew what the word meant, then it meant he wasn't a _gadze_, an outsider. "So you _are_ Roma. Like Thomas."

Mr Shelby straightened up in his seat, distancing his body from hers. "And how do you know Tommy?" he demanded, appropriately wary now. Keeping her in his sight at all times, he placed both of his hands on top of the counter, putting them palm up so as to be as inoffensive as possible. His rolled up cap pressed up against the tips of his fingers.

Naomie dimpled at him. "Oh, I met him yesterday. He helped me get settled in—Thomas has been quite decent to me, so far."

"Our Tommy? Decent?" Mr Shelby snorted. All of the uneasy tension was knocked right out of him by a sudden burst of humour. He looked at her again, examining her all over, and chortled, "Yeah, I bet he's been _real _decent."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Naomie demanded, a little aggrieved. Her brows crinkled, and her mouth puckered with the stirrings of indignation.

"Nothing rude," he assured her. He chuckled again, and slumped forward onto the counter. "Just that the great and mighty Thomas Shelby has finally remembered he's a man like the rest of us. Bloody time."

Naomie glared at the back of his head but settled down anyhow. She suspected that Mr Shelby was deeply misunderstanding her relationship with Thomas, but she did not bother to correct him. After all, she couldn't exactly tell him the truth—she had a strong premonition that Thomas wouldn't like others to know the details of their silly bet. Perhaps he might really shoot her then, even though he was the one who suggested it.

Mr Shelby swiped a nearby beer from the counter and brought it to his mouth. It was actually Naomie's beer, but she said nothing, as she didn't really want it anyway. Mid-chug, he abruptly paused and turned to face her. "I haven't offended you none, have I?" he asked, more cautious than a drunken man had any right to be.

"I'm not going to curse you, if that's what you're asking," Naomie told him through a mouth half-full of fried pig trimmings. "You don't have to be on eggshells all the time. It'll take a lot to get me that angry."

In fact, her nastier curses tended to be reserved for a very particular genre of transgression; she did not cast those so easily otherwise. Even when she was vexed to the point of being red in the face and ready to throw a fist, it was not common for her to go so far as to curse the person who'd caused her pique. She'd been raised to treat her gift as a responsibility rather than a weapon, and it was a lesson that stuck. Mostly because she got smacked with a broom whenever it got unstuck, but regardless.

This was why Naomie was so unused to the way all of these men treated her like a live mine. She hadn't realized witches had such a reputation amongst the Romany people at large; after all, she herself didn't curse people very often. Excepting the fairs, which was populated by enough kin to constitute an army anyway, she'd remained within the confines of her tribe's encampments for most of her life.

And her Young clan did not fear their witches. No living member of her clan even remembered a time when a witch or two wasn't living amongst them, healing and helping. Her grandmother was venerated, her every word received with a respectful sense of gravity, and as for Naomie… well, they could not help but to treat her with the same casual familiarity they showed towards any other Young child. These people had all seen her crawling around in nappies, or running around bare as the day she was born, or rolling around in mud and getting scolded in full public view. They were aware that she was uncommonly powerful, but they were also too used to her easy temperament to feel any fear of her.

Of course, this was partly because the worst curse they had ever known her to cast was one that made one of her sisters jar her elbow every time she passed by a chicken. They'd never seen her make a _gadze_ 'accidentally' bite his own tongue off for saying disgusting things about that same sister, years later. They'd never seen her send ghosts to haunt a young man for weeks on end, tormenting him until his eyes went hollow and his hair turned white as snow. And they'd never have to.

As Naomie scarfed her bar snacks, Mr Shelby sat quietly next to her, downing drink after drink. It was a wonder he hadn't drowned already. If someone told her he was part-fish, she'd believe it.

"You drink like you're trying to escape the demons in your head," Naomie told him, once she'd lost count of how many glasses he'd knocked back. He lifted his head and looked over his slumped shoulder at her. "They won't go away just because of a bit of booze, you know."

"Yeah?" Mr Shelby slurred, dark eyes squinting from under heavy brows. His pupils were not entirely focused. "And I suppose you've got something better than rum in that magic bag of yours?"

"I sure do," said Naomie, brightening up at the prospective of making a sale. She launched into an enthusiastic pitch. "I've got lots of things that'll help, and I've got them right on hand, too. What do you say to a potion that'll cheer you up in an instant whenever you start to feel down? Or a talisman that will keep the most painful memories from taking over your mind? Or even a candle that'll help you sleep like a baby, night after night? How does that sound to you?"

"Sounds too bloody good to be true," grunted Mr Shelby, rubbing a hand over his tired face. He pointed at her with an unsteady finger. "But I'd try anything at this point. Gimme all those."

"They won't be free, though," Naomie warned, already reaching for her bag. "If you want all three, it'll cost you a pretty penny."

Mr Shelby slapped the table. "Hell, you think I'm worried about money? I'm Arthur-_fucking_-Shelby. Money ain't ever a problem. Gimme your price," he said, shoving a hand into his pocket.

"Alright," Naomie replied, a sunny smile breaking on her face. She rifled through her satchel and rearranged those three items so that they sat at the top of her bag, ready to be taken out. "That'll be—"

Naomie stopped. She could feel, like a physical touch pinning her to her seat, someone's heavy gaze on the side of her face. There was a body at her back, not quite against it but close enough to make her aware of a sudden wash of heat.

A low, amused voice slipped into her ear. "Miss Young," it said. Soft breath bussed the side of her face in a lick of hot smoke. "I trust that you were not about to fleece my brother. Especially after your fierce insistence that you were neither a cheat nor a swindler."

Naomie sniffed and ignored him. "Ten pounds, three shillings," she finished, as if she were never interrupted. She placed her wares onto the counter in a neat line.

Arthur Shelby glanced at her, and then at the man behind her, his hand slowly pulling out of his pocket. He held the money in his fist, but he neither extended it nor put it away. He glanced behind her again.

The heat left her back and lingered by her side until she finally turned towards it with a scowl. There, stood between Naomie and his brother, hand slung casually in his pocket, was none other than Thomas Shelby himself. His face was inscrutable. He watched her from under the brim of his hat, his gaze made all the more intense by the shadows cast over his eyes.

He was just as well-dressed as he had been this morning. Just as handsome too.

Handsome or not, he was very much getting in the way of her making money.

"I am not and will never be a swindler, Mr Shelby," Naomie proclaimed primly, pursing her lips, "Because the things I sell actually _work_. Exactly as advertised. I've never had a customer who regretted purchasing from me, only those who regretted not doing so sooner."

Thomas did not reply—he often did not, she found—and only stared at her in silence. His eyes were a blue so cold they could freeze a man through, but holding them felt more like trying to carry a burning coal in her bare hands. Still, Naomie stared stubbornly back, resolved not to quail under his gaze no matter how heavy or unwavering. He had called her a swindler, and she would not stand down until he took it back. The air between them became charged with something unknowable.

"Oh, I'm not doubting the efficacy of your enchantments, Miss Young," Thomas finally said, eyes remaining glued to hers. "Only your pricing of them."

"I price them what they are worth," Naomie replied firmly. She wanted to look away—the more she kept his gaze, the more she felt like she was sitting on a hot pan—but she persevered. "There isn't a man I've met who didn't think these things were worth every shilling and more."

Thomas glanced away from her to the objects set out on the counter, and Naomie allowed the tension to run out of her stiff spine. His eyes flitted from the phial labeled 'cheer', to the tall burlap pouch labeled 'sleep', to the talisman, which was a circle of blue glass with a hole punched in the center. Symbols painted in white and gold danced around the rim of the hole, and there was a strap of leather knotted through it.

"I believe you," Thomas said, with a smile that was not really a smile. There was no humour in it, only a bitter knowing.

From behind him, Arthur finally tired of their strange back and forth. "So, is she a real witch or not?" he demanded, thumping the counter.

"She's a real witch. Even a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, I'm told," Thomas said, paying mind to his brother at last. "I won't stop you from buying her charms."

Arthur, who still had the money in hand, looked from Thomas to Naomie, and then to the wares sitting on the bar. He slowly slid the payment over to Naomie, and she took it up and openly counted it, no longer mindful of whether Thomas was watching or not.

"Ten pounds, three shillings," she concluded happily, whisking the money away into her satchel. "Very good, Mr Shelby. Now, there are some instructions on the packages, but I'll tell them to you as well, just to be sure. Whenever you need a shot of cheer, just take a tiny sip of this bottle that I've helpfully labeled—only _one_ sip, mind you, or else you'll spend the rest of your day grinning like a loon. Someone could punch you in the face and you'd just pat their backs. And this incense candle should be lit a few minutes before bed for best effect, but make sure there isn't any cigarette smoke in the air before you sleep. It'll knock you out the same, but your dreams won't be very good."

Naomie handed each item over as she explained it, and Arthur received them with an expression of complete, drunken concentration. She was fairly sure that he'd forget all this by morning. "And this," she said, dangling the talisman, "You just carry it on you. You'll know that all the power has been used up when the glass breaks in half. This could take a month or a year; that depends on you."

Arthur picked up the talisman by its strap and peered closely at the coloured glass. "Depends on me what?"

"The intensity of your bad memories. How frequently they intrude into your mind."

"Right," he replied, nodding emphatically to show he understood. He tucked the talisman away into the pocket of his coat. "Right, okay."

"Is that all?" asked Tommy, once Arthur had cleared away his purchases and it seemed Naomie had nothing left to say about them. Naomie nodded at him. "Then it's time for you to go home, Arthur. This isn't the Garrison. Harry's not here to start watering down your rum when you go too far. Pol's worried that we'll find you dead in a ditch by the morning."

"Fuck off, Tommy," groaned Arthur, nursing an empty glass to his forehead. "I only came here so you bastards wouldn't bother me. Let a man drink in peace."

"You won't find your peace at the bottom of a bottle, Arthur. Go home. Try your new charms. Have a sleep. You'll thank me in the morning."

With an angry grunt, Arthur got off his stool and shoved past Thomas. Thomas sedately gave way, and he and Naomie both watched Arthur shamble to the door of the pub.

"Is he going to be okay?" Naomie asked, wincing when Arthur slammed his shoulder into another man. The man flinched away with an apology and Arthur bared his teeth at him, before continuing to shuffle past. "Shouldn't you go with him?"

Thomas gestured to the bartender, and then slid onto the vacated bar stool. Settling down, he rolled up his cap and brought out his cigarettes. "Nah, he's a grown man. He'll take care of himself. Just needs a reminder, sometimes."

The bartender hurried over with a clean glass, into which Thomas poured out a splash of whiskey from Arthur's bottle. He had a leisurely sip of his whiskey, took a long drag of his cigarette, and then turned to face her. He leaned sideways on the counter, visibly more relaxed than before.

"Tell me, Naomie," Thomas drawled, white smoke trailing from his lips. The way he said her name made her lower belly clench. His eyes shone like shattered glass under his dark lashes. "Is the boarding house I've found for you not to your liking? Is it not… _respectable_ enough?"

"Not at all," Naomie said, surprised that he would ask such a thing. "I like it very much. I don't know how respectable it is, since I've been asleep the whole day, but the sheets are clean and the room is very comfortable."

"That's good," he said lightly. He took a drag of his cigarette and nodded, slow and thoughtful. "That's very good. Now then, if you like your accommodations so much—why is it that I have found you here, late at night, in a pub full of drunken factory workers, selling your _wares_ to an unknown man, and eating," his eyes flickered to the bar counter in front of her, "Beer snacks?"

Naomie studied Thomas's face; those hooded eyelids, those high cheeks, that lush mouth, the blunt brows raised in a sarcastic show of interest. His expression was as obscure as usual, but his eyes seemed to her to glimmer with a vague desire to needle.

"You're implying something," she concluded, after a moment of thought. "And I suspect I know what it is, but you and I both know it's nothing like that. I was just hungry and couldn't get into the kitchen."

"You could have asked the matron."

"I didn't want to wake her up just because I was hungry. She would have hated me even more than she does now."

Thomas considered this, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks as they rose and fell. Smoke drifted from the hand that hung over the edge of the bar. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"Because _you_ talking to her will fix the problem," Naomie replied, with a wry laugh. "No, it'll be more helpful if you don't. I can get her to like me before long; I'm very charming, you see."

"Oh?" Thomas asked, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "Are you?"

"Am I not?" she said, dimpling sweetly at him. Naomie leaned in close enough to feel the smoke from his cigarette curling around her cheeks, close enough to smell his aftershave. She batted her lashes in an exaggerated manner, and then had to bite her bottom lip to hold in a giggle.

Thomas tilted his head to the side, as if to consider her. His gaze flickered to her mouth and then back to her eyes, where they stayed fast until she, too, was drawn in. He looked at her—she looked back—and without meaning to, Naomie found herself sinking deeper and deeper into his gravitational pull the longer she held his gaze. For a short, breathless moment, she could not remember where she was, or why she was there, or even that there was anyone in the room other than the two of them.

At last, Thomas said, "I suppose you are."

"What?" replied Naomie, dumbly. She blinked several times as she returned to herself. She'd forgotten the question. Was it an important one?

Thomas smiled and said nothing, only turned back to his whiskey and his cigarette. Naomie slowly turned away too, still dazed and bewildered. Mechanically, she reached to her plate of food and brought whatever her hand came across to her mouth.

That had been like being under an enchantment. It was strange as hell. Was she the witch or was he?

How dangerous. She'd have to be careful from now on, lest she be taken unawares again.

Honestly, it had to be breaking some sort of written law to be that attractive and look at others like _that_. Naomie was sure that Thomas had been, at the very least, in complete violation of all sense of decency and human virtue just now. She felt a bizarre but not unwarranted fear that her mother might appear out of nowhere and give her a good tongue lashing for so much as speaking to the man.

The two of them sat in silence, Naomie warily eating—keeping half an eye out for her mother—and Thomas calmly drinking and smoking. Once the last chip disappeared into her mouth, he collected his cigarette boxes and abruptly stood.

"Let's go," he said, pulling his cap back on.

Naomie stared blankly at him. "Go where?"

"I'm walking you back. Come, I don't have all day."

"But I haven't paid—"

Tommy tossed a couple of shillings onto the counter and raised a brow as if to say, 'Anything else?'

There really was nothing else, so Naomie obediently gathered up her belongings and walked out of the pub with him.

When she'd been alone, whether on the street or in the bar, no one had noticed her at all. This was of course due to an amulet that she held, which kept others from paying her much mind unless they were looking for her or she did something to attract notice, such as speak. Now that she was with Thomas, however, everyone was noticing her; she caught the way that random people were nodding or doffing their hats or glancing quietly out the corners of their eyes at the both of them. What this meant was that despite not doing anything at all, Thomas's very presence was salient enough to nullify her notice-me-not amulet.

"So what do you do, exactly?" Naomie asked, peering up at the man by her side.

Thomas smiled with a quiet, private amusement. That was enough for her to understand that his subsequent response would not be the entire truth.

"I'm a bookmaker."

Naomie huffed. Like hell a bookmaker could command such attention—and fear—from so many people. And yet, she could tell that he was telling the truth.

"Bookmaker-and-?" she pressed.

"Bookmaker and none of your business," he said, warningly. His smile slipped away, but she wasn't worried; a spark of humour glimmered just there on his face, just out of sight.

Throwing caution to the wind, Naomie tried one last time. "What if I want to _make_ it my business?"

Instead of getting angry, Thomas tilted his head and looked at her, thoughtfully rubbing his lower lip with his thumb. He was quiet for a long moment, and for a second she thought that he might tell her after all.

"Tell me about your magick, Naomie," Thomas said instead, abruptly changing the topic. "How does it work, exactly?"

Naomie—very seriously and also very pettily—considered telling him it was none of his business. Then she reminded herself that this man was picking up her tab for—well, everything—and that little brother really liked him. Besides, she was never reluctant to speak about magic. It was her hobby, livelihood, and passion.

"Alright, well… Roma magick in general works on two different planes: the natural, and the unnatural," she began, lifting her hands palm-up so that they were each cupping an unseen object. "Witchcraft that deals with the unnatural includes such things as fortune-telling, prophetic dreams, exorcising spirits, seeking the divine, and communing with the dead. These are the things that most people attribute to witches. The unnatural is not bound to earthly rules, therefore a witch's power in the unnatural plane is not either."

Naomie flipped over her left hand so that Thomas could see the horizontal cross on the back of her thin, silver rosary ring. It shone with an uncanny brightness in the dim light of the street. An eerie chill passed over Naomie, and even though Thomas only blinked and made no other indication of having felt anything, she knew that he must have experienced it too. Then she put down that hand, dispersing the sudden chill, and lifted her right, which had retrieved a single shilling from her satchel.

"The natural, of course, has to do with the natural world; that is, reality. Witches, however powerful, cannot completely change reality. They can't make something into something it is not, or bring anything into existence that did not previously exist. They can only increase or decrease effects already there, or make things that are improbable, probable. The more powerful you are, the more probability you can command, and to a greater extent.

"You're a bookmaker, so I'll explain with odds. Look at this coin," she prompted, twirling it between her fingers. Thomas leaned over her shoulder and peered at it as she showed him one side and then the other. It was one of the ones she'd gotten from Arthur, just now. "It's a normal coin, with a head and a tail. There exists no _chovhani_ magick that could directly cause this coin to become double-sided, or change the weight of it, or any number of absolutely impossible things. Now, heads or tails?"

"Heads," Thomas replied, without hesitation. Naomie smiled, satisfied with her spectator. His eyes were very focused. Currently, his attention was wholly concentrated on her. There was nothing worse than an indifferent audience.

"Right. A witch of not much talent could tell you that your next flip will land on heads, and make it come true. Those are odds of 1 to 1 that she's manipulating." She flipped the coin into the air, caught it, and then showed Thomas the result. It had landed on heads. "Not very impressive, though, is it? That could very well have been just chance. And that's the point—that's why she's considered untalented.

"Now, say she tells you that your next three coin tosses will be heads." Naomie demonstrated again, thrice throwing the coin into the air and catching it. Each time, the coin landed on heads. "Odds of 1 to 7. Better, but still nothing much. How about ten heads in a row? What are the chances?"

Thomas mused over the question, silently doing the math in his head, and eventually came out with, "One to around a thousand."

She threw again, ten straight flips, and each time, the coin came up heads. "Now we're getting somewhere. More specifically, those are odds of 1 to 1023 that she's manipulating, which means she's erased all the thousand or so possible outcomes in which tails could have come up at least once. No one would deny that she has a little bit of skill. In this vein, a witch who could make your next hundred tosses with this coin come up as only heads would be considered highly capable, as she would be commanding odds of 1 to… well, an incredibly big number. Over a billion of a billion of a billion, or something like that."

As she walked, Naomie continued to throw the coin, catch it, and show Thomas the result. It invariably came up heads, and his expression became more contemplative with each subsequent demonstration.

"A powerful witch could make your next thousand tosses turn up heads. A _very_ powerful witch could—without ceremony, simply by touching it—charm this coin into never turning up tails again, no matter how many times it is thrown. And, according to what I've heard from other witches, there have historically been rare, prodigious witches who manifested their gift to such an inconceivable degree that they could perform a ritual to make every single coin tossed in this city turn up heads until the moment of their death."

As her lodging house came into view, Naomie's explanation finally wound down and they both fell into a pensive silence.

"And you, Naomie?" Thomas asked, sounding out the syllables of her name as if he wanted to weigh its value in his mouth. He glanced down at the shilling sitting in her palm. "How many times will that coin of yours turn up heads?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?" she replied, with a cocky grin. Naomie flicked the coin over to him and he easily plucked it from the air. "Take it home and try it. I want it back when you're done, though; a shilling is good money, you know."

Thomas blinked slowly, then removed his hand from his pocket and reached out to pull her wrist towards him. He pressed another shilling into her palm, long fingers trailing hot against the back of her hand as he pulled away. "I'll be keeping this," he told her, gesturing with the charmed shilling held in his other hand.

Naomie folded her hand over the replacement coin and stuck it in her pocket. "Sure, if you like," she said. It was no skin off her back; money was money. Maybe she should even charge him for the enchantment on it.

She briefly played with this idea, and eventually decided that would be going too far. But if she saw him winning any wagers with it, she'd definitely demand a cut. Father may have done his best, but Mother hadn't raised a fool.

Before Naomie realized it, they had reached the door to her lodgings. She stopped in place and turned to face him.

"Thanks for walking me," she said, gingerly. She bit her lower lip. "It was… well, pleasant."

Thomas didn't reply, just nodded at her. His gaze felt heavy on her skin.

For several moments, they stood together on that doorstep in the dark, staring wordlessly at each other. Naomie didn't know what he was waiting for. She didn't know what _she_ was waiting for.

She cast about for something to say. What could she say? Something about the wager?

Abruptly, Naomie blurted out the first thing to come to mind, which was, "So, are you in love with me yet?"

She almost cringed immediately after. With herculean effort, she barely managed to keep her face placid and unbothered.

A smile flashed across Thomas face, which had just now seemed so severe and distant as to be carved of stone. His brow lifted. "Can't say that I am, no."

It was already out there; might as well go with it. Naomie nodded emphatically. "Of course you aren't. Because it's nonsense. I'm going to win the bet."

"We'll see," Thomas said, his lips tilting just-so and becoming something that was nearly a smile. It softened the sharp lines of his cheekbones, softened the piercing blue of his eyes. Whenever Naomie saw that expression on his face, she thought that Thomas Shelby might even have been said to look gentle.

Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, Thomas finally turned to leave, apparently having gotten what he'd been waiting for. He began to walk away, still idly rolling the coin around in his hand.

Naomie blinked and then scowled.

"Goodnight to you too," she grumbled under her breath, also turning to the front door of her lodgings. The only response she received was a soft huff of amusement from Thomas's departing back.

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* * *

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**Notes—**

chovhani or chov'hani — Romany word for witch. So, a gypsy witch.

gadze — anyone non-Romany. pejorative connotations.

Happy birthday my bun! part 2


	3. Stud to Water

**cross my palm with silver** (line my pockets with good fortune)

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* * *

**III. Stud to Water**

* * *

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It was several more days before Naomie finally figured out what Thomas Shelby did for a living.

It was a Thursday, and she was at the Garrison Pub with a sandwich and a glass of cider. Ever since the night she met Arthur Shelby, she had been going around from pub to pub to sell her wares; drunken veterans of war had been an untapped market demographic for her, but the incident with Arthur made her realize that it was a surprisingly profitable one. And no one could ever claim that Naomie Young was one to miss out on a profit.

The Garrison had been her afternoon haunt for this past week. Although Harry did not like her to sell directly inside the establishment, he allowed her to set up a tiny stall right outside the building, near the doors. This meant she had to conduct all her business outdoors, whatever the weather. Despite that, among all the pubs where she made her rounds, the Garrison was her favourite. This was not least because of the good company to be found there.

"And do you know what he said, then?" Naomie said, leaning conspiratorially over the bar. Her eyes were twinkling with a careless glee.

"What did he say?" asked Grace, the Garrison's pretty barmaid, also bending forward with her elbows on the counter. The pub was mostly empty at the moment, since the labourers were all on shift, which meant the both of them were on their respective lunch breaks. Grace had in front of her a chicken salad, which she was currently neglecting out of interest for Naomie's story.

"He leaps up, shrieks _just_ like a little girl and goes, 'WHAT? But I've already drunk it!'" Naomie exclaimed, her voice shaking from holding in her giggles. "I thought I was gonna piss myself!"

"No!" Grace gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Behind her fingers, the corners of her lips peeked through with an incredulous grin. "Surely he would have been able to tell?"

"Not in the least! You should have seen his face. He thought it was _milk_!" Naomie cried, her palm smacking against the counter. "He put it in his _tea_!"

As Grace's shoulders shook with lively mirth, her chuckles smothered under her fair hand, Naomie threw back her head and let loose a laugh right from her belly. It was loud, all reckless abandon, and must have attracted the attention of everyone in the room, but Naomie couldn't bring herself to care.

All of a sudden, Grace became very quiet and very still. She turned towards the door of the pub, her earlier humour fading slowly from her face.

"Mr Shelby," she called, in a carefully pleasant tone. Ears perking at the name, Naomie turned too.

It was just as she had thought: there, right by the doors of the Garrison, stood Mr Thomas Shelby himself, staring directly at them. As usual, she couldn't read a single emotion from his face. She hadn't seen him for a few days, but it did not surprise her to see him now; after all, Grace had told her that the other Shelby brothers were already gathered in their snug.

Still giddy with lingering hilarity, Naomie sent Thomas a happy, dimpled beam in greeting. He gazed into her eyes for an agonizingly long moment and then, without a word or even a nod, shifted on his heel and walked right into the snug.

Naomie's face dropped into a scowl. "I swear he does that just because he knows it'll make me mad," she fumed, twisting on the stool to face Grace again. She was startled to see that the barmaid had pulled back a little, away from the counter and away from Naomie.

"I… wasn't aware you were acquainted with Mr Shelby," Grace said, quietly. Naomie could see the bond that had been quickly forming between them—still fresh and frail—beginning to shrivel thin.

The hell. She was in the process of making a new friend, a very lovely one, and Thomas Shelby wasn't going to ruin that for her. Something needed to be done, and quick.

"See! There's that reaction again!" Naomie complained, jabbing her half glass of cider at Grace with a disgruntled look. "There's no way in hell I'm gonna believe he's only a bookmaker when everyone acts like that when they so much as hear that name. Why won't someone just tell me, already?"

"Tell you what?" said Grace carefully, watching her with a calm face but cautious eyes.

"What the hell he _does_. Everyone's taking their pants off for me because of him, and it takes the fun out of everything. If I want someone's pants, I'll charm them out of it myself," Naomie ranted, gesturing wildly at the snug with her sloshing glass. She snatched up her sandwich in her other hand and gnawed at it angrily. "I haven't known him for a week, and I haven't seen him for half of those days, but because he was decent to me a couple of times, that suddenly means that all I am anymore is 'Mr Shelby's acquaintance'. Well, what does that even bloody mean? The hell has he done to make everyone bow down like dogs?"

In fact, Naomie had several guesses, ranging from loan shark to politician, but it was difficult to pinpoint an exact answer. The problem lay in the fact that everyone certainly seemed to be afraid of Thomas, but they also didn't really seem to hate him. Usually, those two things went together.

Grace's eyes flickered to the closed window of the snug, as if wary that the occupants could hear them, and then back to Naomie. "You truly don't know who Mr Shelby is? What he does?" she asked, her voice a low murmur. Seeing Naomie's sullen nod, she slowly closed the distance between them again.

Leaning in, Grace said, "When I came to find employment here, Mr Fenton warned me—someone should warn you, too. The Shelby family, they control all of Small Heath with threats, bribery, and violence. And Thomas Shelby sits right at their head." Alright, she expected as much, but that still didn't explain if Thomas was a politician or a businessman or what. At Naomie's unsatisfied face, Grace clarified, "The Shelbys run the Peaky Blinders. They're a gang."

"Oh," said Naomie, realization dawning on her. "Oh, that makes tons of sense. A gangster. Yes, I should have known. After all, his face already gives the feeling that it's in complete violation of the law. It's just so… you know what I mean, right?"

She glanced at Grace, and smiled to see her expression, which was a picture to behold. The woman looked as if she'd been thrown completely for a loop, her mouth parted and her lashes fluttering.

Suddenly, beyond the beer taps, there was a small, muffled snicker. Naomie turned her head and froze. At some point during the conversation, the window to the snug had opened up.

From the opening, Thomas stared out at her, his face a study in stoicism but his eyes gleaming wickedly. In a tone that was as casual as anything, he drawled, "I can't say I do. What is it you mean, exactly?"

Naomie felt her lips tingle and redden with the beginnings of a flush. It was one thing to call Thomas handsome to his face as a light-hearted joke; it was a whole other matter to be caught sincerely saying so to another person.

"She means you're criminally good-looking, Tommy, that's what _she_ means," an unseen man wheezed out.

This statement had the snug bursting with an eruption of chortles. The flush spread to Naomie's cheeks and down to her neck. Her face was so hot you might have been able to fry an egg on it.

Thomas cocked a brow and, in a voice more ingenuous than it had any right to be, asked, "Is that so, Naomie?"

She glowered at him, teeth working furiously on her lower lip, and an arch smirk finally slipped onto his mouth. "Not in the least," Naomie huffed, even though it was, in fact, exactly what she had meant. Thomas met her glare with an expression that clearly made it known how completely unbothered—and indeed, amused—he was by her indignation. It was such a roguish look that it filled her with the overwhelming desire to throw something at that unfairly attractive face.

When Naomie tore her eyes from his and grumpily returned to her sandwich, he also glanced away, looking over his shoulder at the other inhabitants of the snug. "Alright lads, settle down," he said. "You heard the lady, eh? She says it's not so." There was another round of snickering that Thomas paid no mind to, rather gesturing towards Grace, who had been hovering unsurely behind the bar. "A bottle of whiskey, please. Irish."

"Yes, Mr Shelby," said Grace, hastily bringing it to him. He took it and slid a few shillings over. She began to say, "It's on the house—" when she glanced down and paused. Grace looked up at Thomas inquiringly.

"The extra's for whatever she's drinking," he said, nodding towards Naomie, who blinked owlishly back at him. As he pulled closed the shutters to the window, Thomas quirked a slight grin at her nonplussed face, his eyes just barely crinkling at the corners. Then, with a snap of shutting wood, he disappeared from sight just as suddenly as he had appeared.

A slight awkwardness settled between the two women in the pub. Grace hovered in place, her hands on her apron, while Naomie blinked first at the shutters and then at her.

They stared at each other.

Naomie had no idea why they were staring at each other, nor what Grace's expression was supposed to mean. She also had no intention of allowing Thomas to ruin her budding friendship with a beautiful woman, and was very impatient to get back the good mood they'd been sharing earlier. This all meant, of course, that Naomie was going to deal with the strange new strain between herself and Grace the same way she dealt with all the annoying boys who had followed her around asking for a kiss: she was going to pretend it didn't exist until it went away.

"Well come on," Naomie said, nodding to the plate across from hers on the counter. "If you're not going to eat it, I'm going to assume that means I can. I haven't had chicken in a while, so there's not going to be any left, either." When Grace still seemed to hesitate, Naomie reached over with her fork and jabbed up a liberal amount of chicken and lettuce.

That did the trick. A little smile flickered across Grace's lips, and she finally moved back to her original place behind the counter.

"I've never seen Mr Shelby make such a face before," Grace said quietly, picking up her fork and batting Naomie's away. It retreated, but not without its spoils.

"That's your good fortune," Naomie grumbled, bringing the fork to her mouth. "I've only seen him make it when he's satisfied with how vexed I am. It's like he's made a sport out of riling me up."

"Still, he treats you quite well."

"I suppose so. Perhaps he thinks I'll curse him if I get too pissed off," Naomie said. There was also the matter of their arrangement; Thomas had indeed said that he'd take care of her while she was in Small Heath. She thought that mostly just extended to her accommodations, which he had already dealt with, but maybe he also thought it necessary to pay for a few of her drinks here and there.

"Perhaps," Grace replied noncommittally. It was clear she didn't particularly think Thomas's motives were any such thing. But, well, Grace was the modern, practical type of woman who maintained a healthy skepticism of all things supernatural. She didn't quite believe Naomie's claim of being a witch, or if she did, she didn't understand the implications of it.

That was alright. Grace wasn't Romany, not like Naomie and Thomas were. She didn't have to understand.

The two women finished the rest of their meals in companionable silence. By the time the Shelbys emerged from their snug, Naomie had already left for another pub, eager to sell some more charms.

* * *

Early evening found Naomie in Charlie Strong's yard, tending to her little brother in the stables. Prala was in good health now, both curse and infection expunged from his body, but all the inactivity was getting to him. He was restless, pawing the ground and tossing his head to and fro, and even Naomie could not soothe him anymore.

"Shush, little brother," she said, running her hand over Prala's muzzle. He snorted and huffed at her. "Shush, now. Be good. I'll ask Thomas to let you go for a run tomorrow, so just hang in there for another day, alright?"

"That won't be necessary," said a man's thrumming voice, from right behind Naomie. Another arm reached past hers to rub under Prala's jaw.

Naomie twisted over her shoulder to see Thomas standing right at her back, far closer than she'd expected. Thinking that she was in his way, she moved aside to give him room. His arm falling to his side, Thomas stepped to fill the gap so that he was looming right at her shoulder.

"Tonight is fine," he said, seeming to read the question from her face before she could speak it.

Naomie perked up. With an eager smile, she peered up at him and asked, "Can I take him, then?"

Thomas traced his eyes over her hopeful face contemplatively. She watched the steady rise and fall of his feathery lashes, waited for a reply. He held his silence so closely, and so unwaveringly, that Naomie became convinced that he wouldn't agree. She began to wilt.

Finally, he said, "Alright."

She brightened again.

They got Prala strapped up with a saddle blanket and a halter—Thomas had reached for a bridle first, but Naomie insisted—and lead him out of the stables onto gravel. Naomie pulled over a stool to help herself up.

The moment the stool was in position, Thomas put a foot onto it, leaving no space for her. She stared at him.

"What—" _are you doing_, Naomie wanted to say, but the words hadn't left her mouth when Thomas reached for her and folded his hands around her waist. His thumbs brushed over the base of her ribs through the thin cotton of her shirt. His palms were two hot suns on either side of her, sinking liquid warmth under her prickled skin. His fingers stretched across her back, measuring out the space in the dip of her spine like the steps of a ladder.

Thomas held onto her for what seemed to be an agonizingly long moment, even though it must have been barely any time at all. Naomie had been drawn into the labyrinth of his gaze again, as if by quicksand, and couldn't find her way out. Time seemed to drag.

Then, all of a sudden, all at once, it sped up. The grip on her waist tightened, sending her heart leaping into her throat. Naomie found herself being lifted and swung up onto Prala in a single stroke of movement. She settled onto her little brother's back as naturally as if she had been born to be there.

"Oh," Naomie said, as the reins were pressed into her lax hands. She meant to add, _Thanks_, but before she get the words out, Thomas pushed up from the stool and easily swung a leg over Prala's back, sliding into place behind her. He reached around, grasped the reins just above where she was already holding them, and clicked his tongue. Prala immediately began moving.

Naomie was confused. No, she was bewildered. Her head swarmed with questions and objections, but the solid heat at her back and against her sides scrambled them before they could reach her mouth. She probably wouldn't get to finish her sentence anyway—again—so she instead managed an economical and concise, "Huh?"

Thomas's answering chuckle couldn't be heard, but Naomie could feel it stir her hair and rumble soundlessly across her back.

Her tongue became unstuck at this. "I thought you said I could take him?" she protested.

"You are."

"Well, what'd you get on for?"

"Couldn't be sure you'd resist the temptation to run off with Little Saxon once you were already on him."

Naomie's rising sense of indignity faltered.

Yeah, alright. That wasn't actually impossible. After so long apart from Prala, it would have been difficult to ignore her gypsy blood once the wind got in her hair and little brother's legs were pounding the dirt underneath her. She hadn't planned on it, but the chances of it happening weren't none.

"Wait," she said, brows crinkling. "Little Saxon? You renamed Prala."

Thomas hummed in agreement, and she could almost feel it before she heard it. "Romany doesn't stick to the English tongue. If I'm gonna race him at the tracks, he needs a name that a _gadze_ could remember, and put money on."

Naomie could feel a disgruntled pout developing on her mouth, but she understood what he meant. It was hard to remember names if you couldn't pronounce them. "Why Saxon?"

"The Saxons' symbol is a white dragon," Thomas explained absently, maneuvering little brother onto a route only he knew. Naomie didn't get it, but that might have been the point. She could all but see that thin, private smile that Thomas allowed himself whenever he referenced something he knew she wouldn't understand.

Soon, they ended up on a stretch of field somewhere, with a low carpet of weeds and grass underfoot and a rickety fence bordering all around. Thomas directed them next to the gate and swung himself off of Prala's back. Naomie, who had gotten used to having him there, shivered at the sudden loss of warmth along her back and sides. The evening chill crawled up the back of her neck and over the bare skin of her collarbones, prickling gooseflesh as it went. Naomie almost asked him to get back on.

"Go on," Thomas said, moving next to a post. He pulled out his cigarettes, lit one up. Smoke curled off of his lips in soft waves. "I thought you wanted to ride."

She did. With a deep breath, Naomie turned away from Thomas, who was standing so solid and straight-backed that he may as well be another post. She directed Prala to face the field, pressed herself against his back. With the reins tight in her hands, she squeezed her heels into his sides.

They were off like a shot.

The wind whipped through her hair, snatched at her skirt. Little brother's legs flew forward, ate up ground hungrily. They hurtled to the end of the field, turned as one, raced back. There was no telling where the human ended and the powerful beast under her began. They galloped, leapt, pranced across the flat field. She could no longer tell if the thunder in her chest was her heartbeat or the thud of Prala's hooves.

A gasping laugh tore out from Naomie's lungs, unheard amidst the wind in her ears. She grinned with all her teeth.

There was a reason she had insisted against a bridle with a bit. Little brother did not like bits, and Naomie did not need them. They could read each other instinctually, without clicks or whips or metal bars or other human contrivances. Perhaps it was the magic in her, but it had always been this way.

They rode. The sky became a purple bruise, the light of the sun a bloody thumbprint of gold on the horizon.

After a while of romping around in the darkening field, Naomie began to eye the fence wistfully. It was high, but it wasn't too high to jump.

Imagine how it would feel to ride on endlessly into the distance, just on and on without interruption. How _good_ it would be. It would really… But there wasn't much time before night truly fell.

She sighed and ruefully gave up on the idea.

Thomas was indecently clever. A fence certainly couldn't keep Naomie from running off with Prala, of course. Even Thomas's steady presence by the gate, eyes trailing after her everywhere, wouldn't give her pause. But the winding road they'd taken meant she didn't know where they were. She wasn't even certain which direction Birmingham was. Without money or supplies, Naomie couldn't survive out in the wilderness with little brother in tow, and in a town even less. If, by luck, she managed to head straight into the heart of Birmingham, by the time she got any of her things, it would be too dark to take little brother anywhere without risking injury to him. And staying anywhere in Birmingham was as good as throwing herself right into Thomas's lap.

It was just as well. Imagine if Thomas tracked her down to the Young campsite? Somebody might get shot. It didn't even matter who it was; either way, it would escalate into a family grudge and a war and become a huge mess. Her mother would throw a fit.

At last, Naomie turned Prala back around to the gate post where Thomas had been watching the both of them. She found him leaning languidly against the wooden post, arms draped back over a bar. He was still smoking, had been smoking the entire time; she could see a collection of spent cigarettes and matchsticks by his foot.

"Let's go," Naomie called breathlessly, bringing Prala up next to him. "Before it gets too dark for little brother to see where he's stepping."

"Alright," Thomas said, stubbing out his latest cigarette. With a hand on the fence and the other on Prala's back, he swung himself up without much fuss. They set off.

They rode along the road back to Birmingham in comfortable silence. Naomie could feel Thomas's chest brush against her with the tempo of his breaths, deep and easy and lethargic. The placid, steady pace slowed her pulse, which was still beating rapidly from the thrill of flying without wings.

"Thank you," said Naomie, when she could see Birmingham rising at the end of the road in a cloud of smog and smokestacks. It was getting quite cold—she'd had to stop herself from leaning back and melting against Thomas's warm chest several times. He was so loose-limbed and his manner so leisurely, now, that it was difficult for her not to relax into him. It was like all the tension in his body had ebbed away while she wasn't looking.

"For what?"

"You took time out of your busy schedule to let me do this. You didn't have to; I wouldn't have gotten mad and cursed you, or anything."

"I know," Thomas agreed, his voice a hot thrum in her ear. "That's why I wanted to."

Naomie had no clue what that was supposed to mean. She went quiet for a moment, and then said, "I mean it though. Thank you. I had a lot of fun. I missed it, riding with little brother like that…" She paused, another thought having come to mind.

Naomie bit her lower lip. All in a rush, she said, "Can I take him out for rides like this every night? I really won't run off with him, so you don't have to keep tabs on me all the time, either. Can I?" When Thomas didn't reply right away, she insisted, "I really won't. I'll swear it."

Naomie braced herself for a stern refusal, but dated to hope for assent. Please, please, please…

Neither came. Instead, Thomas said, "Do you like singing?"

"What?" she bleated, caught completely wrong-footed. Her brain, which had been so focused on the matter at hand, had difficulty changing tracks. "Singing?"

"Singing. Do you like it?" repeated Thomas, crisply articulating his words.

Naomie's lashes fluttered in bafflement. "Well, I mean, yeah… Yes, I like singing. I like it a lot. But—why do you ask?"

"I'm thinking of allowing singing on Saturdays," he said idly. "At the Garrison."

"Oh," said Naomie. She was beginning to feel a bit stupid; she couldn't follow this conversation at all. Why was he suddenly talking about the Garrison now? Was she missing something? "That would be nice, I think. I certainly wouldn't object," she added politely, when Thomas didn't say anything further. It would be a good opportunity for profit too, with all the people who were sure to gather.

Thomas hummed noncommittally, and she felt the vibrations run across her shoulders. "If I let you take Saxon out every night, what will you give me in return?" he said, suddenly switching topics again.

Naomie brightened. Now they'd returned to territory she was familiar with, and she could finally follow along. "Well, what do you want?"

Thomas contemplated this. "Of your charms and potions," he began slowly, carefully. "Have you anything that could make a man susceptible to suggestion?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "Remember, I can't do anything that can control a person's free will. That's black magick."

"What about planting false memories?"

"That's beyond what I'm capable of, if it's possible at all."

"Then what _do_ you have?"

Naomie began to list out the many charms, amulets, and potions that she either had on her or would be able to make promptly. Halfway through her list, Thomas stopped her with a pensive hum. He dipped his head to speak into her ear, his jaw brushing the stray hairs by her temple.

"Tell me more about that one."

As they rode into the bounds of Birmingham City, Naomie told him everything there was to know about the item that had caught Thomas's interest. By the time they reached Small Heath, Thomas had given his assent, and once they dismounted in Charlie's Yard, they shook on their new agreement with a spit and a handshake.

* * *

Late Saturday afternoon found Naomie standing outside the Garrison, peddling her wares. It was gray and smoky out, as it always was, but not as smoky as it was back inside. The pub was packed, filled with happy, drunken people and the smell of their bodies, their liquor, their cigarettes. Loud, off-key singing spilled out every time anyone used the doors.

Thomas Shelby had informed the bartender that singing was now to be allowed on Saturdays—only Saturdays, mind—and everyone had dropped by to commemorate the occasion. Naomie had also been part of the crowd at some point, but the discordant roar of voices had begun to make her head hurt. Besides, she had work to do.

Just as Naomie crossed one leg over the other to adjust her weight on the stool, she saw a motorcar coming down the road towards the pub. It looked expensive—more expensive than the Shelbys', and much roomier too. It looked astoundingly out of place amongst the ungovernable grime of Small Heath.

The fancy motorcar drove in closer to the pub than was polite, close enough that she could almost smell its exhaust over the smog. Shining headlights blinded her, left dark spots speckling her vision. When Naomie blinked her eyes clear, it was to see that four men had gotten out of the car and were now striding towards her.

The two men at the front looked rather thuggish, all stiff-backed and thick in their heavy black coats, with guns already out in their hands. Behind them was a somewhat reedy looking gentleman with a sharp, clever face and glasses. She'd bet her left foot that he did something with numbers. The last man was as broad-shouldered as the first two, but far better dressed than any of the others. The boss, probably. He had an arrogant manner about him, as if he was someone important and he knew it.

Naomie observed the last man for a moment longer, fascinated. His face was fixed into a very peculiar expression: like he'd got bored just being born and hadn't been impressed by anything he'd seen since. He had a curious appearance that deserved a bit of study, or at least she thought so. She scrutinized him, wondering what it would take to make a man go through life with such an expression.

Their eyes met; she had been too obvious.

Naomie looked away. The man didn't.

As the group passed by her, and the rest of the men prepared to enter through the doors, the last one came to a stop right in front of her. He examined Naomie up and down, openly taking stock of her appearance, and then gave her a blunt, bold stare.

"How much, then?" he demanded. The rest of the men immediately stopped in place. They showed no response to the interruption except to patiently wait for it to finish.

Naomie blinked up at the man talking to her, squinted her eyes in confusion. "How much for what?"

"How much for your fucking services," he enunciated slowly, angling her with an expression that suggested he couldn't believe she was actually making him say it.

"Services…?" she repeated, looking at him blankly. Completely befuddled, Naomie cast around for clues as to what the hell this guy was going on about.

Her eyes landed on the other side of the Garrison's doorframe, where a pair of prostitutes and their pimp usually loitered, although they were all inside now.

"Oh," Naomie said, realization dawning on her. She looked back at the man, who was looking increasingly as if he thought she must be braindead. "No, that—that's not what I'm selling. But," she continued very graciously, "I do know a few very competent ladies who would be able to help you, if you would like their addresses."

He ignored her perfunctory offer with an equally perfunctory sneer. "Suppose you _are_ a bit bright-eyed to be a prostitute; I'd just figured you were new to it," the man said. Despite now knowing that she was not, in fact, a prostitute, the way he looked at her became no less appraising or less prurient. "Well, what the fuck are you, then?"

Naomie knew almost without thought that telling such a man that she was a witch would turn this encounter into an incredible chore. He'd scoff and insinuate and make all sorts of nasty comments, and it would be exceedingly annoying all around. Well, she had an answer for men like him, too.

"I'm an herbal woman. Pubs get a lot of traffic, so it's a good place to find new customers, and to be found by old ones," Naomie told him, feeling no small pride at her own cleverness. The man's eyes narrowed, and she immediately saw an opportunity for a pitch. "Speaking of, sir, if you decide to contact those ladies after all, I have a tonic you'll certainly be interested in. It's a prescription invented by my family that'll deepen your… _enjoyment_ beyond any natural means."

"Oh?" the man drawled, raising his eyebrows at her very skeptically. Still, he was listening to her instead of going in, which meant he must have some level of interest.

Naomie looked him right in the eye and nodded just once, with great confidence. She lowered her voice, tilted her head closer as if sharing something private. "Without even mentioning all the heightened sensations, merely its effect on your stamina will stun you. You'll have more endurance than a horse: you could go round after round after round without tiring. One woman won't be enough—but lock yourself in a room with three or four, and you'll have yourself the best fucking night of your life." She paused to gauge his reaction so far. When she found him watching her with some interest, Naomie smiled charmingly and leaned back again.

"It'll be a world of ecstasy like you've never known. Just imagine: unending rapture running throughout your entire body, for hours on end. Then, when you're finally done with it all, those women will all leave the next day knowing they'll never find another man who could do to them what you just did. And the best part?" she paused for effect, her eyes lidded and compelling. Naomie hushed her voice again, pitched her tone lower, and lightly bit her lower lip, as if excited to tell this secret to him. "You'll wake up after all that and not remember anything at all. Only overwhelming bliss."

"Why the fuck would _that_ be the best part?" the man demanded, snapping out of the trance he had begun to fall into. A bad-tempered scowl came across his face. His lip rose, and he seemed about ready to dismiss her as a fraud. Indeed, most people didn't take well to the suggestion of taking a medicine that would make them lose their memory, especially a good one.

"Why?" Naomie made a face of surprise at him, her mouth relaxing into a small, round part. Like she couldn't fathom why he was asking. "Because it means that the next time you take the tonic, you'll enjoy it just as much as the first time. Because it means you'll never, ever get inured to the experience of knocking on the doors to paradise. Because you can have the best night of your life again, and again, and again, and every time it will be just as fresh, as powerful, as the first time." She sent him a knowing look. "After all, you strike me as a man who abhors being bored. And with this, you'll _never_ get bored, no matter how many times you take it."

The man stared intensely at her, no longer frowning. His eyes burnt dark over the natural sneer of his mouth. He looked hungrily enthralled by the picture Naomie had painted for him.

She had to subtly pinch her leg to keep herself from beaming. Oh, she was good.

"Ah, Mr Kimber," cut in the numbers gentleman, seeing that his boss was about do something probably ill-advised. "If I may, perhaps it might be wiser to conduct our current business first, and save more pleasant pursuits for after."

Kimber's eyes slid to look at the other man, and for a moment Naomie was convinced he would ignore him. But even though she had pegged Kimber as an unreasonable sort of man, he answered with a surprisingly sensible, "Yeah, alright."

"But you," he continued, turning to Naomie. "Had better still be here when I'm out. You know who I am, yeah?"

"Of course, Mr Kimber," said Naomie, dimpling. "It's truly my good fortune to have you express interest in my medicines. I won't move a single step until you've returned."

She had, in fact, not a single bloody clue who he was supposed to be. But the skinny gentleman had helpfully provided a name, and she was a dab hand at the glibness necessary to any salesperson.

"Good girl," said Kimber, looking satisfied with himself. He turned away, and the group finally entered the Garrison.

From her position outside the pub, Naomie soon heard the muffled report of a gun being fired. It took no time at all for people to start fleeing; what must have been the entire population of Garrison Lane dispersed out into the streets, either tensely silent or whispering lowly about a Billy Kimber. It seemed Mr Kimber _was_ as important as he thought he was.

Thomas was not among the crowd of escapees, not that Naomie expected him to be. For someone that well-off and well-known to come to a place like this, of course it would be for Thomas Shelby.

Perhaps she should be a bit concerned for him, even if only out of consideration of her current housing situation.

But, well... she wasn't. Naomie had seen Thomas near the bar earlier, and there hadn't been even the slightest shadow of death on his face or in the lines of his palms. He'd be fine.

As expected, Kimber and company exited the Garrison without so much as another shot being fired. As the doors swung shut behind them, Kimber sent his men away and stopped by Naomie, giving her an expectant look.

"So? How much?"

Naomie smiled a little to herself, amused that they had come full circle. This time, though, she had an answer for him.

"Twelve pound, one shilling."

Kimber narrowed his eyes at her but pulled out the money nonetheless. Naomie counted it quickly—catching the shilling when he flipped it over to her—and pressed her lips together to hold in a happy grin. She loved making sales to wealthy men because she could call any price she wanted, and they could still afford it. Twelve pounds wasn't something any factory worker could shell over for something like a pleasure tonic. Most of her transactions with the populace of Small Heath were contained to within a pound or less.

Naomie extracted a corked medicine bottle from her satchel and handed it over, along with a quick rundown of all relevant instructions and warnings. As she spoke, Kimber flipped the glass bottle around in his hand and inspected the liquid inside.

"This better fucking work."

"I assure you it will, Mr Kimber."

"Know from personal experience, do you?" he said, with a suggestive leer.

"Oh, not at all," Naomie replied airily. She clasped her hands as if in prayer, and looked up to the heavens with a face as wide-eyed and virtuous-looking as humanly possible. "Our Heavenly Lord's discerning eye and the barbed chastity belt my father has installed on my person prevents me from becoming personally familiar with such sinful matters."

That did the trick; Kimber gave her a repulsed look and hurried away, clearly very put off. As he got into his motorcar, he shot her one last glance, his upper lip curled back in disgust.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Naomie pressed a hand over her mouth and rushed into the Garrison. The doors had barely closed behind her when a snicker shivered free from her throat, followed by several more, each louder than the least.

Then Kimber's deeply affronted face flashed in her mind, and her suppressed snickering finally erupted into uncontrolled peals of laughter. Naomie clutched her belly and doubled over, her entire body shaking with mirth.

"Bloody hell. Who the fuck is that?" someone said, sounding bewildered. "She's completely gone around the bend."

Another voice, louder and angrier, called out, "Oi, you. No one's allowed in the Garrison right now. Get the fuck outta here."

Realizing that she had an audience—one with potential for hostility, at that—Naomie reined in her giggles as best she could. She wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes, pushed her hair out of her face, and straightened up to see a trio of men with blue eyes all staring at her, nonplussed.

"Hello, Misters Shelby," Naomie greeted, still grinning a little. "Sorry to interrupt."

"If it isn't Tommy's little witch," said Arthur, belligerence vanishing into the wind.

"So that's her, is it?" said the man beside him, presumably another Shelby she hadn't met. The man looked her up and down appraisingly, his eyebrows high on his forehead. If he had any opinions on what he saw, he didn't have the chance to say them; just then, Thomas rose to his feet, the beginnings of a frown forming between his brows.

"Naomie," he said in a hard voice, stalking towards her. He sounded stern in a way that she wasn't used to. "Were you out there the entire time?"

"Yeah, I've been right outside the doors since I left earlier," Naomie told him. She startled when Thomas grabbed her arm as soon as he was in reach. He began to drag her back out of the doors of the pub, not being particularly gentle about it. She stumbled after him. "What are you…?"

Thomas pulled her into the secluded corner where the Garrison met the building next to it, and then turned to loom over her, his body blocking off their interaction from the rest of the street. He was so close she could count the faint freckles across his cheeks.

"While you were out here, you must have seen all the people leaving," he prompted quietly, pointing at the stool where Naomie was usually perched. His tone was deceptively mild, but he might have been carved of marble for how cold and stony he looked.

"Yes…"

"When you saw everyone leaving, did it not occur to you that you should _also_ leave?" said Thomas, his voice so low and calm that he couldn't be anything but pissed off.

"I just thought they got spooked by the gunshot."

"So you heard a gun being fired," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "And you thought it was a good fucking idea to stand around next to the place it was shot, _eh_?"

"Well, Mr Kimber told me not to move before he returned, so I…" Naomie trailed off, seeing the thunderous expression on Thomas's face.

"You fucking _talked_ to him?"

She threw her hands up, exasperated at what she felt to be a deeply unfair scolding. "I was only sitting there! He talked to me first!"

Thomas's lips thinned, but he didn't address her snippy reply. "What did Kimber want?"

"He wanted to buy something from me."

Stormy blue eyes narrowed at her. "What?"

"Well, first he thought I was a prostitute so it was my company," Naomie paused when she thought she saw a muscle jump in his jaw again, but when he didn't show any other reaction, she dismissed it as a trick of the light and continued, "But I told him that I was actually an herbal woman, and he ended up buying a tonic that would turn him into a real stud. In the bedroom, I mean."

"And did he also tell you to fuck him? To help him test the tonic, of course," Thomas said bitingly, his face too still and blank for the harshness of his words.

What was he trying to say? Naomie's brows crinkled into a little frown as she tried to figure out what was going through his head. "Maybe he would have, but I made sure to put him right off that idea."

Thomas carefully scrutinized her face, his eyes flitting between both of hers. Naomie met his gaze boldly, also doing her best to read something from him. What the hell was going on? Why was he mad? She hadn't done anything wrong, and she didn't appreciate him treating her as if she had.

"Just tell me Kimber won't want me to take you to the races, Naomie," he finally sighed, the acerbity slowly seeping out of him.

Naomie blinked, thrown by what seemed to her to be a complete non sequitur. She opened her mouth and then closed it.

"Tell me."

"There's no way Kimber will want you to take me to the races," she repeated dutifully. When Thomas began to frown at her again, she rolled her eyes and said, emphatically, "I'm serious, Thomas. I told him my father put a barbed chastity belt on me. He bolted so quick you'd think I was a leper."

Thomas considered this for a moment, his thumb running over his lower lip. Then he gave her a brisk nod, apparently satisfied with her answer.

Naomie didn't nod back, only gave him a searching look.

An awkward hush fell between them. They stared at each other, Naomie quietly waiting for an explanation and Thomas pretending he couldn't tell.

Unsurprisingly, Naomie lost her patience first. "What were you so angry for?" she said.

"Wasn't angry," said Thomas, even though he had obviously been angry. He cocked a brow as if she were being ridiculous, and she shot him a cutting look that made clear what she thought of _that_.

"Tell me. It's only fair."

Instead of replying, Thomas only stared at her for another long minute and then turned to walk off. Naomie was having none of it, though; she jumped forward to clutch at his arm, stopping him in place.

He glanced down at where her hands were crinkling his sleeve, and He glanced down at where her hands were crinkling his sleeve, and then back to her face, openly frowning at her.

"Tell me," Naomie insisted, her mouth pursed. "Just so you know, I'm prepared to be very annoying about it."

"You're already bloody—" Thomas began, through gritted teeth, but then he stopped himself. At the sight of her looking expectantly up at him, he sighed and ran his palm over his jaw. She could see the stern lines of his face soften with a glimmer of something.

"Come on," he said, starting to walk again. Naomie trailed after him, still clinging to his sleeve. As they strolled down the street, Thomas went through the whole process of taking out a cigarette, running it over his bottom lip, and then lighting it. Once he could no longer delay with the cigarette anymore, he bent his head towards her and spoke in a quiet voice.

"This stays between you and me." He waited for her nod to continue. "I plan to make a deal with Kimber. When I do, I'll need someone to… ease the process."

"You need a woman to distract him."

"That's right. But not you."

"What? Why not?" Naomie said, bristling. It was absurd for her to be offended over this, but she was, nonetheless. "I'm ace at distracting people!"

"I'm sure you are," Thomas said, almost indulgently. "But Kimber is a cad and a bastard, and you aren't just any woman. Something goes wrong, I can't bloody well expect you not to react drastically."

"You think he'll overstep his bounds and I'll curse him for it."

"Anything happens to him, that's my fucking license up in smoke," he said, by way of agreement. "Only, if he decides he wants you and I bring him another woman… chances are, that deal won't go quite so well for me."

"Not a problem; it's impossible for him to want me, now," Naomie said. Then she realized that, if not her, then that meant Thomas was going to deliver another woman right into Kimber's dirty hands. A woman who wouldn't have Naomie's natural advantages. "Who, then?"

Thomas looked away and pressed his lips tightly around his cigarette. He took a deep drag and breathed the smoke out through his nose. It was a series of gestures that she now knew to mean 'none of your fucking business'.

"Whoever it is, he'll want time alone with her… You have a plan though, right? To stop things getting too far. You must have a plan."

He continued to pointedly not look at her, icy eyes remaining fixed ahead.

Disbelief washed over Naomie. "My God, Thomas. You don't have a plan at all," she breathed, incredulous. "You're just going to let Kimber have his way so you can have your fucking license."

Thomas gave her a sharp glance at this. "Don't make the mistake of thinking this has anything to do with you," he said lowly. "I've only told you this bloody much so you don't somehow get in the way, like you almost did, _just_ fucking now."

Naomie stopped in place, and, with her hands still on his sleeve, Thomas was pulled to a stop as well. He turned just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.

"You're a bastard, Thomas," she told him, her voice hard. She glared at him, and Thomas looked back stonily, his jaw tight. They stared at each other in tense silence until Naomie closed her eyes and took a slow, calming breath. "But I don't believe you're that much of a bastard."

He glanced away. "Clearly haven't given it enough time, eh?"

"I've given it long enough," said Naomie, recalling what he'd said the first night they'd met. Her chin jutted out stubbornly. "Long enough to know that even though you're as ambitious as the devil himself, no amount of benefit would have you gladly send an unsuspecting woman into the arms of a lecher."

Thomas reached up to the half-gone cigarette being crushed between his lips and threw it down onto the street. He ground the glowing tip under his heel with more force than necessary. "Have you a better idea?"

"In fact, I do." When Thomas scoffed, Naomie scowled at him and snapped, "Just hear me out." She tugged at his arm until he slowly lowered his head towards her.

Naomie leaned in close until her mouth was next to his ear, and then, in a low whisper, began to sketch out the details of the idea slowly taking root in her mind. When she pulled away, Thomas looked at her and gave her a single, curt nod. They resumed walking, and finished the rest of their stroll in strained silence. It broke only when they arrived in Charlie Strong's yard.

"Oh," said Naomie, her lashes fluttering at the familiar surroundings. She hadn't realized that this was where they had been heading. "Do you have some business with Charlie?"

"Isn't it about time for your evening hack?"

"It is," Naomie replied, surprised that he knew. Thomas inclined his head in the direction of the stables. With one last glance at him, she let go of his arm—with a soft startle when she realized she'd been holding onto it the whole time—to make her way over.

"Naomie," Thomas called suddenly. Naomie stopped in place and turned over her shoulder to see him looking gravely at her. He stood there for a long moment, his lips pressed together into a thin line. Then, after a pause so long as to be uncomfortable, he turned on his heel and strode off, without a word.

"That's an awful way to apologize," she called after him.

"Wasn't apologizing," he drawled back, not bothering to turn his head.

"Well you should have been!"

Thomas ignored her and continued to walk away, soon rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.

"God help whoever marries that man," Naomie muttered under her breath. With an exasperated eye roll, she went off to the stables to go for her daily ride.

.

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* * *

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**Notes—**

Tommy: DID YA PUT YOUR NAME IN DA GOBLET OF FIYA, NAOMIE

Naomie (has done nothing wrong, ever): I am _shocked_ and _appalled  
_

happy birthday bun! pt. 3

(this is unedited, so lemme know if u spot any errors)


	4. Crown of Violets

**cross my palm with silver** (line your pockets with good fortune)

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* * *

**IV. Crown of Violets**

* * *

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Tommy settled into a chair, flipping the shilling up into the air with his thumb and catching it in his hand in one smooth, practised motion. He uncurled his hand to glance at it—heads—and slid the coin back to his thumb. He flipped the shilling again, caught it, glanced at it—heads—and repeated the process several more times, puffing quietly on a fag all the while.

There was a sharp clink of china. "Stop that," Polly said, giving him a gimlet eye from across the table. "If I see that coin in the air one more time, you see if this kettle doesn't join it."

He flipped the shilling one last time, glanced at it—heads—and pocketed it before Polly could make good on her threat.

"Why am I here, Pol?" Tommy asked, tired of waiting for her to speak first.

"Why do you think?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking, isn't it?" He sent over an expectant look, reaching out to flick ash off into the tray.

Polly took a long sip of her tea before she spoke. "Your brothers have been talking," she said, watching him closely. "About a woman."

"Just have them do the usual. Toss a coin, loser gives way," Tommy said, gesturing with the cigarette pinched between his fingers. He frowned a little, eyes veering to the clock on the wall. "Is that it? Because I need to see a man about a horse, and—"

"Not any woman, either. A witch," continued Polly, as if he hadn't said anything. Tommy stilled, his eyes flitting back to his aunt's hard face. In that calm, steady tone that portended a storm about to break, she asked, "Have you been fucking a witch, Tommy?"

He cleared his throat. As carefully as if he were stepping into a minefield, he said, "I haven't been fucking any witches."

"Is that so? Let me rephrase, then," she replied lightly, taking another sip of her tea. "Thomas Shelby, have you been _fucking around_ with a_ chovhani_?"

A muscle jumped in Tommy's jaw; her keen eyes caught it and narrowed. It was the same as a confession, and they both knew it. "Pol…" he began, extending his hand to try to placate her, but she was already beginning her tirade.

"Not just any _chovhani_, either. Seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, or so I hear."

"Pol, listen—"

"I'd wondered why you were in such a good mood lately, why you looked so well rested. You and Arthur both," Polly said, still sounding dangerously calm. "Was relieved for all of a week, and then I saw the charms Arthur bought from her. Potent stuff, that. Whoever this _chovhani_ is, she's the real deal, and powerful to boot; she's not someone to fuck with. _Certainly_ not someone to get mixed up in your schemes, including all that _shit _you've got going on with the Inspector, or Kimber, or the Lees." Her voice rose gradually, until she was just short of shouting. "Are you mad? Have you finally lost the whole _fucking _plot? You can fuck with men, Thomas, you can fuck with guns, but you sure as hell should know better than to fuck with Romany magick—especially true, black-blooded witches. What the _hell _are you thinking?"

"Polly. I understand your concerns, I do," Tommy said soothingly, after waiting for her to run out of steam. Polly did not look soothed at all; her eyes narrowed at his tone, and she took a deep breath. He plowed on before she could start up again. "I thought of it all meself. I really did. But it's just like you said—Arthur and I, we've been sleeping better, _doing _better. She's cured my horse, fixed Charlie's rashes, taken some of the jitters right out of Curly. Naomie Young has been good for us. She's a good ally, you've got to see that."

Polly's lips thinned into a tight line. "You piss her off, and she's a worse enemy."

"She won't _be _an enemy."

"And how do you know that? You tell futures, now? Funny, you've never been interested in learning the arts before," she scoffed, pulling out her cigarette case. Polly slipped a fag between her lips and lit it. Her next words were punctuated with a cloud of gray smoke. "Or are you planning on _actually _fucking her, then? Let me tell you, that'll just make her madder when you finally do piss her off."

"I'm not _planning _on fucking anybody," Tommy said tersely. He thought of the tiny sachet currently in the inside pocket of his coat, the sachet that found itself on his pillow every night. Then his mind invariably trailed to the girl who had given it to him.

He indeed had no plans to lay with Naomie. But if her head found itself on that same pillow, black curls spilling wildly over the sides, her face a pale oval in the moonlight, then…

Tommy cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

"You don't have a choice anymore," said Polly, pointing her cigarette at him. "If she wants you to fuck her, you'd better do it. Hell hath no fury, Thomas. A woman scorned is bad enough, but a witch scorned—she'd make you _wish _you were in hell."

Scorn her? The only reason Tommy would have for scorning her would be to prove that he still could. His mind flashed back to the sachet again.

How long did it take for a love spell to work? How could he tell if it was working or not? And what if it did work, what if it was working right now? It would be his win, in terms of their wager, but being forced to love someone, being under their control, it put a bad taste in his mouth.

But it was only temporary, he reminded himself. It was only temporary, and Naomie had said she would make sure to get rid of it if it wasn't. Tommy just had to trust her on her word. And, as bizarre as it was, he did.

Distracted by his own thoughts, he said, "You haven't met the girl, Pol—Naomie's not like that. She's harmless."

Polly stared at him for a long moment, the muscles of her jaw bunching up. "Harmless?" she asked, very quietly. Tommy snapped to attention; he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing right up. "A _chovhani_? _Harmless_? I'll _show _you harmless, you _daft_—" she glanced around wildly for something to whack him with, and, finding nothing better, reached across the table to wail on him with a rolled up newspaper.

"Alright," he said, catching the offending object after patiently enduring a few smacks. "Alright, Pol. It's fair you don't believe me, but I swear it's true. Just meet her, eh? I swear that nothing will happen to you. Just meet her."

"Fine," Polly snapped. She threw the newspaper aside and jabbed a finger at him. "But if it's happening, then it's happening today. And don't you bring her into this bloody house without my say so."

"Not a problem; swing by the Garrison in a few hours," Tommy said agreeably, getting to his feet. His hand slipped casually into his right-hand pocket, thumb automatically finding the shilling he kept there and smoothing over its worn surface. "She'll probably be there by then."

* * *

When he had told Polly that Naomie would 'probably' be at the Garrison, what Tommy had really meant was 'absolutely'. In fact, he had a very intimate familiarity with Naomie Young's day to day proceedings—more so than he had ever intended to know.

This was not to say that Tommy was going out of his way to keep tabs on her. He'd had her watched during the first week, of course, but had stopped once an investigation into her background showed her to be exactly who she claimed to be. Locating the current position of the Young clan took a bit of effort, but he knew that it could have been much more difficult without Naomie's helpful divulgations that first night.

According to his report, the Youngs, camped just past the eastern periphery of the Cotswold Hills, were currently missing one of their daughters. To be exact, the youngest granddaughter of _Baba_ Young—distinguished witch and most esteemed wise woman of the clan—had wordlessly vanished into the night around the time that Naomie had sprung onto Small Heath. Remarkably, despite the sudden disappearance of one of their young, unmarried women, a girl that everyone spoke fondly of, nobody seemed all too worried about the entire thing. He knew for a fact that Naomie had not approached the post or telegram offices in her entire time in Small Heath, so this was a somewhat puzzling matter, made even more so by the discovery that Naomie's father was considered something of a wild dog in the _familia_, known to be both very protective and very handy with a shotgun.

In any case, Naomie's background checked out. She was telling the truth. Somehow, Tommy knew would be the case even before his man had come into his office with the full report. That was probably why, immediately upon learning that Naomie had begun frequenting pubs at night, he'd made a personal visit to every pub in Small Heath and its surrounding areas to warn the owners that if a young woman came in wanting to sell trinkets and medicines to their patrons, they had better fucking not turn her out or allow anything untoward to happen to her, lest they make him unhappy. And when Tommy Shelby became unhappy, things began to burn, and caps began to cut, and it would be an unpleasant experience all around. So they didn't want to make him unhappy, eh? _Eh_? Good.

That had been a few weeks back. While he was no longer keeping track of Naomie's movements, Tommy didn't discourage news of her from reaching his ears, and never interrupted when anyone brought her up.

And news came indeed, from both expected and unexpected quarters: uncle Charlie's grumblings about how she'd almost trampled him underfoot while on Little Saxon, Jeremiah Jesus's offhand comment that he'd seen her in church on Sundays, the Italians' overtures of reconciliation in informing him about the unknown woman sharing her gelato with his youngest brother at one of their shops every morning. Little bits and pieces that came together in his mind to paint a comprehensive image of what it was that Naomie Young got up to when Tommy couldn't see her.

While she did not have anything resembling a daily schedule, something of a routine had begun to emerge, with certain events punctuating the passage of the day like exclamation marks. The most obvious part of her routine was her evening ride with Little Saxon, which occurred during the few twilit hours before the sky became completely dark. It was the highlight of her day, if Curly was to be believed. And probably Curly's too, based on his enthusiastic exaltations of all the tricks that Naomie could get her otherwise very stubborn horse to do.

There was also the aforementioned visit to the Italian gelateria, where Naomie had a couple of scoops of gelato every morning without fail. Sometimes this treat was shared with Finn, when his youngest brother managed to squirm out from under the Shelby family's watchful eye. Tommy knew he would have to talk to either Finn or Naomie about this eventually, before the boy got either a tooth or a stomach ache and their meetings came to Polly's attention—but that could wait.

And then there was lunchtime. While Naomie seemed to decide which pubs she'd frequent in the evenings mostly on whim, noon always found her at the Garrison. She spent the time when everyone else was having their lunch break sitting out in front of the pub, selling what she could. Then, in the quiet lull that followed, she slipped into the pub to have her lunch and chatter happily with Grace. This was something he did not need gossip to know; even on the days he did not drop by the Garrison, he could see Naomie perched on her stool from the window of his flat on Garrison Lane.

Tommy had spoken to every bar owner about the girl except Harry. There were many reasons for this, and to say that this was not one of them was to lie.

This was how Tommy knew the exact moment that Naomie took her lunch break that afternoon. As the sun crested just over the peaks of buildings, he stood by his window and watched her small figure hop off of her stool and scramble through the doors. Pausing to light a new cigarette, he pulled on his jacket and headed to the pub.

* * *

When he entered the Garrison, it was to see Grace compliantly bending her head so that Naomie—bent in half over the bar, her knees braced precariously on a stool—could tuck a ring of braided flowers over her hair. Then, with raised brows, he watched as Naomie dropped a hand down to the counter and leaned in further to land a quick, chaste kiss on Grace's mouth.

"A kiss and a crown of violets; this ache in your brow go silent," Naomie recited cheerily, straightening up but remaining knelt in her seat. "There. Your headache will go away soon."

The surprised look on Grace's face faded, and she touched the flowers behind her ear with an indulgent smile. "Thank you."

Seeing that the women were distracted with each other, Tommy silently stepped up behind Naomie, angling his approach so that Grace couldn't see him coming past Naomie's looming body.

Once he was close enough for the smoke from his cigarette to drift up and brush the back of her shoulders, he asked, "Have you any more of those? I've a bit of head pain meself."

Naomie startled violently and twisted around to look behind her. She had only just managed to lay eyes on him when one of her knees slipped off of the seat. With a sharp yelp of surprise, her entire body began a free fall towards him, right off of the stool.

For a short half-second, Tommy thought about letting her fall just to see the look on her face when she got back up. Except his body was already moving on its own, his arm snaking out to catch Naomie around the middle. She fell completely into the crook of his elbow and he stepped closer to brace her against him, bringing them flush against each other: her thigh against his stomach, her soft chest pressed over his shoulder, his hand spanning the dip of her trim waist.

Tommy spent an interminable moment considering the body he was holding. The pliant, slight weight that could only belong to a woman, the smell of herbs, pleasantly floral, the feathery brush of hair by his cheek, the nervous flutter and stretch of her ribcage under his fingers—if he could have, Tommy might have held this small, warm body to him for hours.

But then he glanced up and realized that Grace was staring at him from over Naomie's shoulder, her face wiped carefully blank. With an indiscernible click of his tongue, Tommy's grip on Naomie tightened and he swept her safely back onto the stool.

"Thanks," said Naomie, once she found herself once more firmly seated. She immediately tried to pull away from him, but his arm refused to budge, stubbornly keeping her pressed close. When she pulled back again, harder this time, Tommy let her slip away without any resistance. Not expecting this, she put too much force into the removal and had to throw out her arms so as not to fall over again. The stool wobbled dangerously under her before it settled.

"You did that on purpose," Naomie accused, her pink flushed face the very picture of aggrievement.

"Did what?" Tommy asked blandly, looking for the world as if he wasn't aware that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

She shot him a stormy-eyed glare. "You're a scoundrel," she informed him, her rosy lips pursed. "One of these days, I'm gonna give you the hiccups for a week and you're gonna regret bullying me so."

He heard Grace's shallow intake of breath, even despite her attempt to suppress it. Indeed, Tommy Shelby didn't usually take well to threats. But…

Hiccups, eh?

Tommy sent Naomie a long, amused look that had her both scowling harder and blushing hotter. At the sight of her indignant, vibrantly red face, a sudden flash of warmth unfurled within him like a blot of ink, heady and lasting. It was an emotion Tommy seldom felt nowadays, and he found it startling in its unfamiliarity.

Perhaps recognizing an alarming shift in the way he was gazing at Naomie, Grace interrupted the heavy moment to say, "What brings you to the Garrison today, Mr Shelby? Do you need anything?"

"Three glasses and a bottle of rum. White," Tommy said, with a clear of his throat. Then, after some thought, "And a bottle of cider, too. Bring it all in there."

Grace, whose eyes had followed his finger to the snug, paused and tilted her head back to glance at him. "Cider, Mr Shelby? What kind?"

"Eh… whatever _she_ likes to drink," he replied, jerking his head at Naomie. "With me, Naomie. We've got some business."

"We have?" she asked, blinking warily at him. "What about my lunch?"

"You can have it after."

"But it'll get cold."

"Then I'll get you something hot. Come, we haven't much time until Polly gets here." Before Naomie could voice another protest, Tommy grasped her small hand and pressed a bill into it. "One pound now, and one more once Polly leaves. And there's extra money if she doesn't hate you by the end of it."

She curled her fingers around the money and pocketed it. Suddenly docile, she shut her mouth with a click and obediently followed him into the snug.

"So… who's Polly?" Naomie asked, when Tommy had brought in all the bottles and snapped all openings shut. She was nestled comfortably on the benches that were usually only occupied by the Peaky Blinders, looking entirely at home against the dark upholstery. It almost seemed to him as if she belonged there.

"The most dangerous woman in Small Heath," said Tommy, settling into his usual seat under the serving window. At Naomie's confused frown, he clarified, "My aunt."

"And what business does your aunt have with me?" Naomie asked, still appearing quite bemused. A thought seemed to occur to her, and she lit up. "Does she want to buy something?"

Tommy pointed to her with his cigarette. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. Don't try to sell her anything; it'll only make her sour."

Naomie's expression became crestfallen, her brows scrunching upwards and her lower lip slipping out. He stared at her plush mouth, struck with the bizarre desire to catch that lip between his teeth. "No selling her _anything_? Ever?"

"If Pol wants to purchase anything from you, she'll let you know," he said. Tommy dragged his eyes back up to hers. "Unless she does, don't bring the subject up."

"Fine," grumbled Naomie.

"Not a word about our wager."

"I know that even without you telling me."

"And no bringing up your mornings with Finn at the gelateria, either."

That gave Naomie pause. "But why?"

Because Polly would put a stop to it on the spot, and it would break Finn's little heart. It was still the month of Finn's birthday; the boy could be allowed a bit more indulgence.

Tommy said none of this, though, only levelled Naomie with a look until she nodded reluctantly. He reached out to pour out a glass of cider for her, and she took it as the offering it was, bringing it to her mouth for a sip.

"Why does Polly want to talk, anyway?"

Tommy cleared his throat and stubbed out his spent cigarette. "She thinks you're dangerous. Too dangerous to keep around. You're meant to convince her otherwise."

"But I _am_ dangerous," Naomie complained sullenly, her words a mumble around the lip of her glass. She squinted warningly at him, looking very unthreatening and rather more like the sun had gotten into her eyes. "I could make someone stub their toe everyday for a year. Have you ever stubbed your toe for a week straight? That's already hell, you know, let alone a year."

"Just keep that up, eh?" Tommy encouraged, finding that one corner of his mouth had pulled into a half-smirk almost without his notice. He may have sounded mocking but he was actually quite serious. "You'll convince her in no time at all."

With a face full of affront, Naomie opened her mouth—probably to extol the horrors of regular toe stubbing—when the door to the snug cracked open and someone stepped through. Both Naomie and Tommy glanced over to see Polly standing in the doorway, as regal as a queen in her court.

"Hello," she said, her smile knife-edge sharp. Her eyes zeroed in on the girl beside him. "You must be Naomie Young."

Naomie climbed to her feet, looking like she had just encountered something perplexingly delightful. She hurried around the table and grasped Polly hand—which had not been extended—in both of hers.

Polly's brow rose and she sent Naomie's hands a pointed look, which Naomie studiously did not notice. Tommy almost winced. That was… not a promising start.

"I am! And you are—" Naomie bit her lower lip and shook her head, staring down at Polly's palm with great focus. "I'm sorry, I'm getting _such_ a strange impression off of you, almost as if… are you a _chovhani_ too?"

Polly's other brow shot up, and Tommy's with it.

"Not that I am aware of," Polly answered crisply. "Why."

"The feeling is muffled—like most of it is hibernating, really—but I swear you have magick in you, and no small amount; you've no idea how excited I am to meet you, I've actually never met a real witch other than my gran before, and I don't mean ordinary wise women either…"

"Alright, sit down," Polly commanded, inclining her head at the seats. Naomie obediently shut her mouth and sat, blinking up at Polly with her big eyes. "Tommy—get out. Women's business should stay between women."

A distant spark of alarm flickered in him. Tommy had expected to be there during the whole conversation, to shepherd Naomie along when it seemed she was about to say something wrong, and to redirect Polly when she became too thorny. He understood what she wanted, but was reluctant to leave.

"Pol," said Tommy.

"Thomas," said Polly.

The two Shelbys stared at each other. After a long, pregnant pause, Tommy finally grunted and stood up.

"Naomie," he called in a low voice. "Anytime you feel you need to leave, you leave. I'll still give you that pound."

"Alright," Naomie replied cheerily. "But don't forget you promised me a hot meal too."

Tommy nodded and with one last, lingering look, turned to leave the snug.

"Hmm. He's acting as if _I_ was the witch," he heard Polly remark in an ambiguous tone, as he slipped past through the doorway.

"So you're really not? But I think you'd make a great _chovhani_, if you don't mind me saying; if you like, I can—"

The door slammed shut on his heel, and Tommy immediately headed to the bar. He needed a fucking drink.

* * *

Tommy spent the next hour watching the door to the snug out of the corner of his eye, his hands alternately bringing glass and fag to his mouth. He was too distracted to appreciate Grace's subtle attempts to draw him into casual conversation, even though he knew it would help to mellow out his odd mood.

Honest to God—not that he believed in God—Tommy had no fucking idea why he was so restless. It wasn't like he thought the two women would murder each other.

Well. It was hard to tell with Polly. She didn't tend to get on with women who were not blood, and if she thought someone was enough of a threat, it was difficult to predict how far she'd go. And he knew for a fact that she kept an especially vicious hatpin in her hair at all times.

But Tommy also knew that Naomie was not a threat, despite what great power hid inside of that elfin body. She wasn't the sort to throw around black curses at the faintest provocation. And he was confident that one conversation with the girl, disarming as she was, would be enough to convince Polly of the same. He wouldn't have suggested it if he were not confident, which was why it was so strange that he could not fucking settle down.

Tommy blew out a stream of smoke and then turned to face the snug when the door finally opened.

Polly strode brusquely up to him. She looked disgruntled but not murderous, which he took as a good sign. "Fine. I'll allow that she does seem… _harmless_," she said, coming to a stop in front of him. Her lips were thinned to a white line; it clearly took great effort for her to admit this.

Tommy very considerately kept his smug comments to himself. He must not have controlled his expression nearly so well, because Polly's eyes narrowed at him in a manner he knew to mean she thought he was looking annoyingly self-satisfied. "But that doesn't mean she won't still become a danger later on," she continued, jabbing her cigarette at him. "You may have dismissed the girl out of hand because she's a bit pretty and seems too artless for much, but you don't know how women can be. I'll be keeping a close eye on this one."

Tommy tipped his half-empty glass of rum at her in an irreverent toast. "You do as you like, Pol."

"You're bloody right I will," Polly said, taking the glass from his hand and tossing it back. She shot him a smirk—the same one he knew sometimes slipped onto his own face—and clipped out of the Garrison without another look back.

All tension ran out of him at seeing Polly leave so casually, without any further comment. Tommy poured himself another splash of rum from the bottle and lazily sipped at it as he waited for Naomie. When she did not emerge from the snug even after he'd finished his drink and shared a few quiet glances with Grace from across the bar, he stubbed out his current cigarette and went to see what was taking her so long.

Upon slipping into the snug, he found Naomie sitting cross-legged on the bench, a tight chain of purple flowers unfurling in front of her. The same vibrant flowers were strewn wildly across the table, transforming the worn, varnished wood into a makeshift garden plot. She was humming something under her breath—a low, soothing melody that Tommy could not quite make out the words to, if there were any words at all. Whatever she was doing, it seemed to be something rather important, because Naomie was so focused on her task that she did not even notice his entrance.

Tommy closed the door silently and leaned his shoulder against it. His hooded eyes studied her part by incremental part, from her fine, dark brows, scrunched in concentration, to the stray curls escaping the ribbon she'd pulled her hair up with, to the shift of her skin over the slopes and valleys of her collarbones. As indistinct humming rose and fell like the drift of a gentle tide, he watched her deft fingers weaving in and out between thin green stems.

It wasn't until Naomie was twining the ends of the chain into each other that Tommy realized she had been braiding a crown of flowers.

"Come here, Thomas," she said, finally glancing up at him.

Tommy ambled over to stand in front of her, and she drew her legs up onto the bench and knelt on the cushions. Naomie lifted her flower crown in both hands. "Here, bend your head a bit."

He stared at her for a long moment—head high, back ramrod straight—but then slowly, slowly inclined his head for her. A slight weight settled over his head in a wash of floral perfume, something velvety soft brushing the tops of his ears.

Tommy touched the silken petals curling at his temple. Thomas Shelby, feared gangster, wearing a flower crown. Small Heath would be brought to its knees if anybody saw. "What's this for?"

Naomie put her hands on her waist and appraised him. Her eyes shone with satisfaction, glossy like a silver coin catching the light. "Didn't you say you had a headache? This will help," she told him, turning away to clean up the plot of flowers on the table.

Tommy was aware he had said such a thing. But of course, he'd said it because—

"If I recall, there was another part to this spell."

She froze. "Uh," Naomie said, peeking at him over her shoulder. "It's not—not quite necessary, per say, for the spell to work. I—I mean, if it's a bit of pain. Just—the flowers will be enough. For that."

"But you see," Tommy said, his face as inscrutable as that of a marble statue. He gestured to his temple. "Me head's pounding like the devil. I'd say it's quite necessary."

Naomie stared at him, gnawing furiously on her lower lip. "It really hurts?" she asked, cautiously.

"It really hurts," he said.

She continued to hesitate for several more moments. Tommy said nothing, did nothing, only stood there, looking at her. Waiting.

Finally, Naomie straightened away from the table and turned to face him. Without another chance to second guess herself, as quick as a snake, she brushed her lips against his and then shot away.

"A-kiss-and-a-crown-of-violets-this-ache-in-your-brow-go-silent-alright-good-day!" she said in a rush, all in one breath. She grabbed her bag and scrambled off the benches, about to bolt out of the room.

Tommy grasped her elbow as she dashed past him and pulled her to him. Taken off balance, Naomie stumbled right into his chest.

"You missed," he said, gazing thoughtfully down at her face, which was a delicious pink. It was also scowling up at him in deep indignation. "You should at least make sure the spell is cast properly, eh?"

"I didn't miss!" she sputtered. She tugged at her arm and insisted, "Of _course_ it was cast properly, you—"

All protests halted when Tommy bent his head and slid his mouth against her petal-soft lips. Naomie stilled completely, and he moved his hand from her elbow to the back of her neck, curling his palm around the bare expanse of skin he found there. It laid against her tenderly, neither pressing nor holding her in place.

Naomie stared at him. From so close, he could see the spokes of gold fanning out from her pupils, which were blown so wide that only a thin, smoky ring remained around them. Tommy gazed into those wide-open, gray-gold eyes, and once more did nothing. With all the patience he'd learned in the darkness of the tunnels, he waited for her to react, to move, to pull away. Or else to pull closer.

She did none of those things, but her eyes did flutter shut, dark lashes fanning high on her cheeks. Her lips shifted against his in a tiny, aborted movement.

Everything seemed to go quiet around them. Tommy's world narrowed to a point; Naomie's quick, shallow breaths, the sweet perfume of flowers that seemed to follow her everywhere, the warm, smooth skin of her neck under his fingers. And her lips, of course, her lips, the taste of them—apples and alcohol—the feel of them—swollen and childishly damp and pliant, the way she so rarely was.

His mouth remained painfully gentle as it coaxed hers. And it was painful, indeed, to keep himself from drinking her in, to keep from startling this wild creature away.

When Naomie sighed quietly and her head began to tilt to accommodate him, something within Tommy's chest shuddered, like a bird with shattered wings contemplating flight. It alarmed him; he pulled away immediately, as if burnt.

Tommy cleared his throat and stepped back. As evenly as if nothing had happened, he said, "That should do it. Headache's gone already."

Shuttered eyes shot open and stared at him accusingly.

"You—I—that—" Naomie sputtered. Tommy watched, fascinated, as a red flush—angrier and swifter than usual—stole over her entire face, rushed down her neck to her shoulders, carried all the way down to her wrists. "You're so _aggravating_!" she burst out, throwing up her hands. She made a wordless noise of frustration and stomped to the door of the snug.

Tommy could not help but to chuckle under his breath as Naomie fumbled with the doorknob, tripped over her dragging satchel, and finally stumbled out of the room. Shooting one last glare at him, she stormed out of the snug and then the pub, the ribbon in her hair fluttering behind her.

Finding his mouth strangely dry, Tommy sat and took a swig from one of the tumblers on the table. At the unexpected taste of something sweet and faintly familiar—and clearly not whiskey—he held the glass up and looked into it properly.

Cider. He'd grabbed Naomie's glass.

Tommy silently toasted the air, then took another sip. The taste of apples and alcohol hit his tongue.

It was good. He hadn't known before that cider tasted this good.

Tommy poured himself another glass and continued drinking.

* * *

Later, after all the busywork was done with, after the bustle and the noise and the whirling commotion of the day turned into the mayhem of the evening, Tommy found himself alone in the private snug at the Garrison once again.

Arthur and some of the other boys had gone off to get rowdy at another pub, leaving Tommy to something resembling peace and relative quiet. Evidence of their earlier patronage remained, however, in the form of empty bottles and half-empty glasses, burnt out fags in the tray, still-wet puddles of rum glistening on the wood of the table.

Tommy himself had a full glass of rum in front of him, although it was being ignored for the steady line of cigarettes that found their way to his lips. He was… thinking, for a given value of thought. Nothing to do with guns, or Kimber, or the races, or money, or any of the usual things he thought about, day in and day out. Rather, he was wondering if he needed to go see Lizzie tonight. Wondering what it would mean if he did. Wondering if it meant anything at all.

He reached into his inner pocket for the sachet that had made its home there. Cupping it in his palm, Tommy brought it up and eyed it as he would a loaded gun. When he breathed in, the scent of flowers and herbs drifted into his lungs, carrying all the way down to his darkest corners. It was not a smell he could describe if asked, but he had become intimately familiar with it in the last few weeks. He'd carried this pouch around everyday, had held it often, but the strength of its fragrance had barely faded at all since he'd received it.

Such a little thing. And yet…

The door to the snug cracked open. Tommy glanced up, his hand closing into a fist.

"Oh—Mr Shelby," said Grace, coming to a stop in the doorway. She was clutching an empty tray in one hand, a clean rag slung over her wrist. She was still wearing the flower crown that Naomie had made for her earlier in the day. "I didn't know you were still…"

"You're fine," he said, smoothly slipping the sachet back into the private pocket of his coat. He gestured to the bottles on the table with his other hand, cigarette pinched between two fingers. "Go on."

Grace looked up at him through her long lashes and dipped her head in thanks. She shuffled into the room and Tommy watched as she began to clean up the mess that the Blinder boys had left behind. When she bent over the table to reach for a far glass, his eyes wandered lazily to the round of her ass and then away.

As she straightened back up, Grace knocked against a nearly empty glass with her elbow. It tipped over, and its meagre contents began to drip over the side of the table and onto his leg. Tommy took a drag of his cigarette and surveyed the darkening spot that was developing on the leg of his trousers, his expression unreadable.

"Mr Shelby, I'm—I'm so sorry," said Grace, hurrying to him. Seemingly without thinking, she reached out with her unused rag and pressed it against the wet stain, midway down his thigh. She bent over the spot of rum and swiped at it a few times, as if hoping to mop it up before it got worse. When she turned her head up to glance at him, it brought their faces in close, close enough that he could feel her soft breaths caressing his cheeks.

Grace was looking up at him through her lashes again, magnetic green peering through a delicate lattice of gold. Tommy observed her through hooded eyes, faintly amused by her transparency.

They remained like this for several long moments, just looking at each other, barely any distance between them. He could smell the fragrance of violets every time her exhalations stirred against his lips.

It didn't have to be Lizzie, he supposed.

"I'm sorry, Mr Shelby. I think this will have to be taken to the cleaner's," Grace finally said, her voice a low lilt.

Tommy smirked. Then he kissed her.

It was nothing like his earlier kiss. He found that there was too little gentleness left in him for that, and no patience at all. He must have used up his entire store with Naomie.

This was hot and slick. Open-mouthed. Hungry and demanding. Her hands were braced on his shoulders, and one of his was firm in her hair. This was not Tommy cupping a pearl carefully in his palm; this was him seizing a pile of gold he'd found with both fists.

Just as Tommy was tossing out his burnt-out cigarette and raising an arm to Grace's waist, the door slammed open. He pulled away abruptly and turned to face the intruder. Grace paused for a moment and then tactfully stepped back.

"Tommy," called Lovelock, lingering in the doorway. He glanced curiously at Grace but quickly trained his eyes back on Tommy. "Someone's just given me a note. Said it was important. For your eyes only."

Tommy gestured Lovelock over, and the man faithfully trooped in. Tommy took the paper offered to him, and unfolded it.

It was short and to the point. Someone claimed to have business with him, about some sort of robbery. Wanted to meet. Tomorrow morning, at the Garrison.

"Who gave this to you?" Tommy demanded, folding the note back up before Grace could see its contents. He slipped it into his pocket, next to the sachet.

"Uh, a man. An Irishman."

"Police?"

"No. No, definitely not police. Looked too cagey, and smelled like the bottom of a barrel. Scurried off afterwards. Wasn't sure what it was about, but thought you'd want to know right away."

As far as Tommy was concerned, any mention of a robbery was most definitely referring to the stolen machine guns. The fucking IRA had finally made its move.

"Good man, Lovelock," said Tommy, nodding at the man. "I'll take care of it. You head back, now."

Lovelock nodded at him, and, with a final glance at Grace, wandered out of the snug.

Once the door snapped shut, Grace slowly approached Tommy once more.

"And what did my countrymen want?" she asked idly, her hands reaching out to smooth tentatively over his lapel. "Anything I could help with?"

He looked blankly at her beautiful face, no longer in the mood to carry on. Instead of replying, Tommy grabbed his boxes of cigarettes from the table, slipped them into his trousers, and began to fit his cap back on his head. Taking her cue, Grace retrieved her hands from his shoulders and moved away from him again.

He would say one thing for the woman—she was impressively quick on the uptake. That would be useful when he took her to Cheltenham.

When Tommy got to his feet, he could feel Grace's eyes following him as if fixed. He did not bother to meet her gaze. Head filled with thoughts about the guns and the IRA, Tommy wordlessly strode out of the snug and headed to the shop.

* * *

Long after Thomas Shelby left the Garrison, Grace Burgess stood in the private snug, staring at nothing. Slowly, she brought her trembling hands up to her hair and began smoothing it down.

The sense of urgency that had been beating behind her at every step had spurred her into drastic action. Though spilling the rum had been risky, she had felt the need to do something before she lost the chance altogether.

Unfortunately, it hadn't panned out. Perhaps, even if it had, it wouldn't have gotten her any closer to the guns. Tommy Shelby was like a living fortress, and catching his attention was simply too difficult, made no easier by his intense fascination with Naomie Young. There had been the slightest glimmer of a chance before Naomie, but now…

Grace hated to admit it, but it was beginning to look impossible for her to do what the Inspector had been so hesitant to suggest.

Fine. Tommy was not the only Shelby. He may have been their leader, but one of the others had to know _something_. She'd just have to… switch tracks. The Inspector would have to understand.

And she'd have to somehow remedy the mess she'd made for herself just now. Tommy would become suspicious of her if she set her sights on one of his brothers immediately after throwing herself at him. Or he'd think her a harlot and warn his brothers away. Either way, it would hurt the operation.

As Grace ran her fingers through her hair, her fingers caught on the crown of violets that she had forgotten to take off. She lifted it from her head and considered it.

Indeed, her headache had gone away not long after it had been so carefully tucked into her hair. But the girl who had given it to her—

"If only circumstance hadn't chosen you, Naomie," Grace sighed under her breath. She now realized what the Inspector had meant, that day in the opera.

Naomie, the lively girl who was always trying to cure Grace's headaches.

Naomie, the source of all of Grace's headaches.

Grace slipped the flower crown into her apron and continued to clean up the room.

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* * *

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**Notes—**

happy bday bun pt. 4

the bun wants kiss scene. i give bun THREE kiss scene. bun like. excellent.

if it feels like chapters are getting shorter, that's because _they are_

you can just tell that grace and naomie are gonna be """"good friends""""

i forgot to mention: cross-posted to ao3. feels like a few of you know already though. [please imagine an eye emoji here.]


	5. Grace's Secret

**cross my palm with silver** (line their pockets with good fortune)

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**V. Grace's Secret**

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"I've seen ya," hissed the IRA man, savage-eyed and uncomfortably warm and far too close. Her skin crawled where he was grabbing her face. "I've seen your face, serving at the Garrison. _Come here_."

The man pulled out a gun, jabbed it against her jaw, crowded her until she felt she would choke on the stench of booze and sweat. Her heart thundered in her chest, and all her nerves stretched wire-thin, ready to react to the threat. She could barely even feel his bruising grip on her. "I'm taking you in for—"

He let out a shout as, all of a sudden, out of absolutely nowhere, a black bird—a crow—dove at his face and began to attack him. In a furious rush of rustling feathers and swiping talons and raucous squawking, the IRA man was driven away from her and his gun knocked out of his hand.

Grace watched the scene with uncomprehending eyes, her head gone completely blank with shock. She watched as the man screamed and stumbled back, his arms waving frantically in an attempt to beat the bird away. Then she looked up, past him, beyond him, to the other side of the alley, where her gaze found itself caught and arrested.

Because there, stood within the shadow of a broken wall of bricks, was Naomie Young. Her hair was a fierce black halo, wilder than Grace had ever seen it, and her eyes were two black holes; looking into them felt like entering an abyss, lightless and unfathomably deep. Her pale moon face was a cold, hollow thing, completely empty of expression.

Grace did not normally put stock in the supernatural—but Naomie seemed, right then and there, to be something beyond human. It was as if a terrible spirit had taken over her mortal body, or as if she had herself become some distant, nebulous creature. For a short, fervid moment, Grace vividly believed all of Naomie's claims of being a witch.

Then, with a furious howl, the man finally managed to smack the bird with a stray fist, knocking it in the head and sending it plummeting to the ground. It laid there, stunned, and became so still and quiet that Grace was almost certain it had died.

Naomie began to move at that, clipping towards them in a rush of skirts. She suddenly looked like a normal girl again, all traces of Otherness vanished in the sunlight, but she also looked livid.

"The _ fuck _ are you?" the IRA man demanded, staggering around to glare at Naomie. He was clutching one of his eyes, blood dripping between his fingers. His other eye was wide and savage; he looked feral with pain and anger.

"Naomie, no!" Grace called, stepping forward in her panic. But Naomie did not stop—rather, she cut into a sprint.

"You're together? I'll kill BOTH of you," the man snarled, snatching his revolver up from the ground. Seeing the man train the weapon on Naomie, Grace also raised the gun still hidden in her purse.

His finger tugged on the trigger. Acid sprung to Grace's throat, caught between her teeth, and she squeezed down on her own trigger with as much haste as she could manage.

There were two simultaneous clicks.

And then Naomie was in front of the man and diving right into his torso, knocking him to the ground. They scrabbled around in the dirt; the man whipped his gun across her face, leaving a red mark on her cheek and a gash at the corner of her mouth and she replied with a bloody-toothed grin and a quick jab right in his only working eye. Then Grace was there, too, kicking the gun out of his hand and making it fly off into a stack of crates.

"YOU BLOODY CUNTS, I'LL FUCKING—" this frenzied roar was cut off by a vicious kick to his head, courtesy of Grace. The man stilled.

Everything became very quiet, all at once. Naomie and Grace stared at each other.

"Naomie," Grace finally sighed. She offered a hand out to the girl and, when Naomie grasped it, pulled her up to her feet. They stood next to the unconscious man, close enough for their skirts to whisper against each other. Grace's eyes fixed on the wounds on Naomie's face. "You're hurt."

"Oh, this?" Naomie touched her cheek and smiled a tiny smile. "I've been in worse scraps. What about you, are you hurt?"

"I'm alright," Grace said. And then, after a pause, "That was very reckless of you."

"It sure does seem like it," Naomie agreed, completely unrepentant. "Lucky that his gun was jammed. What are the odds?"

Another pause. Grace ghosted the back of her hand over Naomie's bruising cheek and tenderly brushed a thumb under the wet cut along her lower lip. "Tommy will kill me," she murmured, just to fill the silence.

Naomie snorted. "He doesn't have the right."

Grace was silent for another long moment, her lashes lowering. And then, finally, she said, "Thank you."

"Of course," Naomie answered easily, dimpling sweetly at her. She reached out and grabbed Grace's hand. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yes," said Grace. She looked onto Naomie's lovely little face; her body felt numb all over, her mind like a vacant room, but her heart squeezed hard in her chest. Under the cover of her skirt, her fingers tightened around the hand in hers. "Of course."

* * *

Ignoring all protest and wheedling, Grace corralled Naomie over to the Garrison, which was closer than either of their lodgings. She sat Naomie down—sending the girl a quelling look when she looked like she would run off as soon as she was left alone—and fetched the rudimentary tin of first aid supplies that Harry kept in the office.

Naomie had quailed at the thought of putting whiskey straight on her wound; Grace only managed to get her to stop squirming away by promising to treat the wounds only with Naomie's own ointments and tinctures. Deeming this to be an appropriate concession, Naomie had ceased her fussing to search through her satchel instead.

From the depths of the satchel Grace received a vial full of liquid in which she soaked a wad of gauze. She was gingerly dabbing this cloth on Naomie's lower lip and cheek when Tommy Shelby entered the Garrison.

Naomie's gaze was turned away from the door, and so she could not have known this, but Grace was positioned at such an angle that she could see his every expression out of the corner of her eye. She observed him as he stood motionless in the doorway, saw the way his eyes examined Naomie's entire body, searching. She saw the moment he spotted the purpling bruise spreading across Naomie's cheek, the way his careful neutrality gave way to something hard and cold. Like a lake in the first frost of winter, the dangerous stillness of his gaze gave way to a sudden rush of ice, a chilling layer of black glass that threatened to crack and drag you under for the slightest provocation.

He did not look surprised, though. It seemed this coincidental arrival wasn't a coincidence at all. Which, of course, meant that someone had seen them. Someone who knew Tommy well enough to think to fetch him. Who?

Faces flashed through her mind like frames on a reel. There had been a man—a man who had looked too interested—who had turned on his heel as soon as they had passed him—yes, there had been a man. The preacher. Grace noted this down as useful information and lifted the gauze from Naomie's lip.

At the flash of blood, the sight of an open wound on the girl's face, Tommy was spurred into motion. He stalked towards them, his legs eating up the distance in no time at all. A sharp glance at Grace had her moving aside so that he could take her place in front of Naomie.

"What happened," Tommy demanded. His tone was harsh, but Grace could see that the hand he curled under Naomie's jaw was painfully gentle. His thumb brushed just under the cut drawn across her lip and cheek, unknowingly following the same path that Grace had traced earlier.

Grace remained silent, unsure how she could explain the situation without painting a target on herself. He would have questions, she knew. He would ask her what she was doing there, why with that man, why the man had attacked her. He would have questions, and the means to verify her answers to those questions. She couldn't afford to attract suspicion now, least of all from him. Silence was her best defence. Silence meant Tommy would continue not to notice her.

Except Naomie. Except if Naomie made any mention of Grace. Any at all.

Grace had to physically hold herself from tensing when she saw Naomie's lips parting. Shooting a look at Tommy's back, Grace opened her own mouth.

But then—

"You should see the other guy," Naomie quipped, before Grace could begin to speak. The girl grinned jauntily; it must have hurt, but she didn't even seem to feel the way the motion stretched at her cut.

Though this smile was ostensibly directed at Tommy, it seemed to Grace that it was rather for her benefit. The tension that had slipped between her shoulders ran slowly out of her. Grace closed her mouth.

"Yeah. I think I should," Tommy said, his voice so even as to be ominous. His eyes were intent on Naomie's injuries, his thumb softly tracing the line of her jaw over and over. "Who did this? Tell me."

"How am I to know? I saw a man getting rough with a woman, so I decided I needed to get rough with _him_. It's not as if I stopped to ask for introductions."

Tommy's face darkened but he did not yet lose his temper. "Where?"

"Not on your territory, so, not your problem."

"Naomie."

"Why do you want to know? There's no blinding left to be done; I've already gotten at both his eyes."

"_Naomie_," Tommy called, low and warning. He was clearly getting frustrated with Naomie's stonewalling. Grace might almost have worried for her, except that she could still see his thumb stroking idly along her jaw.

At this, a frown came upon Naomie's brows. "_What_, Thomas?" she demanded, turning serious. She dropped the evasively lighthearted tone that she'd put on. "What will you do if you know? Track him down and cut him up? Kill him? And why? Because he treats women badly? Or maybe because he got a hit in on me?"

Tommy said nothing, but the muscles in his cheek were visibly bunching up. Unease stirred in Grace's chest. What was Naomie doing? Tommy had been angry _for_ her, at first, but now it looked as if he was fast becoming angry _with_ her. Naomie was courting danger, and Grace couldn't quite tell why.

"Well, let me tell you this, Thomas. You can't kill this man."

"_I _can't?" he asked, silky and dangerous. His thumb stilled on Naomie's face. Grace's breath was a thick stone caught in her throat. "And why is that?"

"Because I've read it," Naomie declared. Grace had no idea what this meant, but Naomie sounded bold as brass. Like she didn't notice that the hand cradling her jaw could just as easily twist and wrap around her neck. "A portent. It doesn't matter who kills him; that man cannot die anytime soon, or else a disaster will descend upon you. And not a small one, either."

Coming from anyone else, this would have sounded like a threat. Tommy remained silent for a long time, his lashes low. Grace's hand groped for the purse still hanging from her shoulder and the feeling of the gun inside grounded her.

"No time soon, eh?" he said, sounding pensive.

"No time soon," agreed Naomie, with a quick nod that dislodged his hand.

It trailed away, drifted up to brush her hair away from her face. "You get that looked at," he said, his curled fingers hovering over the vibrant bruise on her cheek.

"That's what Grace was doing, before you swanned in," she told him, playfully bumping his palm with her chin. "You'd best let her get back to it before I change my mind about letting her."

Tommy watched Naomie's face for a moment longer, eyes hooded, and then slowly inclined his head, turning to the side just barely enough to see Grace. Grace met his gaze out of habit, staring steadily back into those ice-chip eyes until she remembered—right, she had decided on a new strategy to find the guns, hadn't she? It wouldn't do for Tommy to think she was still interested in him.

Grace hurriedly looked away, and her eyes fell on Naomie, who was peering curiously at them.

An idea sparked in her mind. Surely if… yes, if that were the case… it would only be reasonable for Grace to direct her attentions elsewhere.

Grace tore her eyes away from Naomie and to the floor. Her expression, she knew, was blank and stiff.

Perhaps she should look more stricken? What sort of face were women supposed to make in such a scenario? When the man they were meant to have affections for was being soft on another woman? Tommy had never been openly intimate with any woman before, and seeing him being so unambiguously tender with Naomie was the perfect opportunity for Grace to appear… no, not jealous. That would make him think she still had some sort of emotional investment in him. Disappointed? Was that right?

Before Grace could decide, a voice broke through her musings.

"You take good care of her," said Tommy. His tone was firm, and no one would mistake his words as anything but an order.

Honestly, this was really rather cruel of him: he was establishing, in no uncertain terms, which woman he favoured between the two of them. If Grace had more than an iota of feeling towards him—as he thought she did—it would have cut her to the quick. As it was, she was perhaps more annoyed than anything; she had already been taking care of Naomie before Tommy Shelby had 'swanned in', and she had planned to do so regardless of what he might have to say.

But Grace kept her face blank and her eyes glued to the floorboards. "Yes, Mr Shelby," she murmured, taking care that none of her thoughts reflected in her voice. She could feel the weight of his scrutiny for another moment before he dismissed her. Out of her periphery, Grace could see him touching Naomie's face one last time before he detached himself from her and set for the door.

Grace was glad to see him go. Thomas Shelby was an awful man. He was dangerous, wicked, and immoral. He was a brute, a criminal, a cold-blooded murderer. He was also—though he was quite undeserving of this faculty—indecently attractive.

Yes, in fact, Grace did know exactly what Naomie had meant when she described Tommy's face as feeling utterly in violation of the law. It was difficult to look at him and feel no stirrings at all. From the moment she had first seen him, felt those striking eyes boring into her as she sang, she had felt a spark of—something. And when the Inspector had hesitantly suggested that she 'get closer' to Thomas Shelby, she hadn't even been repulsed at the idea, like she would have expected.

It was good that Naomie had arrived when she had, before Grace could lose perspective. The attraction was still there—it was difficult to shake—but Grace rarely had the opportunity for any meaningful interaction with Tommy. Besides, what sort of feeling could she have for a man whose eyes constantly trailed after another woman? Grace had never been the sort of person who could be satisfied playing second fiddle to someone else. And she never would be, either.

No, she wouldn't lose perspective. Thomas Shelby had the guns, and she'd find where they were before he could sell them to the communists, or worse—the damned IRA.

There was a touch on Grace's hand, drawing her out of her thoughts.

"He's gone, Grace," said Naomie, blinking up at her. "You can relax now." The girl smiled at her, a sunny beam, and Grace was hit by a realization.

She'd wondered, earlier, about Naomie's actions, why she'd said so much just to get him to leave the situation be.

Obviously, Naomie hadn't blinded the IRA bastard: she'd only given one of his eyes a bruise—nothing bad enough to call it lost—and the other had been taken by the bird, who had been perhaps provoked by the man's sudden yell or else angry about the disturbance under its nest. And all that nonsense about a portent—well, that was clearly her dissembling so that Tommy would stop asking about what had happened.

Naomie could have easily relayed what had really happened and enjoyed Tommy's concern, his protection, his attention; she could have simply sat pretty and allowed him to take revenge on her behalf. Anyone else would have done so. Even Grace couldn't say for certain that she herself wouldn't have, if she hadn't been afraid of being found out.

Instead Naomie had risked Tommy's wrath. She had lied to him and protected the bastard who had tried to kill her. And why? To what end?

It was difficult for Grace to wrap her head around the idea, but it seemed like—and she could be mistaken, of course—except she could think of no other reason—and well, it really did seem like—Naomie had done it for _Grace_.

An unexpected rush of warmth washed over Grace at the thought. She looked back at Naomie and smiled, small but sincere. Stepping forward, Grace leaned in close to the girl, fingers reaching for the medical supplies on the countertop.

"Let's get you properly cleaned up," she said, reaching out to tuck Naomie's dark hair away from her swelling cheek, behind her small, pale ear. Naomie blinked up with wide eyes and nodded docilely.

Grace's heart squeezed, a pulse so sharp it was almost painful, and she couldn't help but to think—a man as awful as Thomas Shelby didn't deserve a girl as sweet as this. He would ruin her.

Unnerved by the implications of such a thought, she shook it away and determinedly focused on dressing Naomie's wounds, her hands more gentle than they had any need to be.

* * *

The next day, Grace headed to the gallery to report to Inspector Campbell about the change in plans.

"It is difficult," she confessed lowly, her eyes fixed on the statue in front of her. "Convincing Thomas Shelby to pay me any mind at all. Far more difficult than I anticipated. It may be more expedient to… change targets."

Chester Campbell stared at her for a long moment.

"You, Grace, having difficulty catching a man's attention?" he demanded, sounding baffled. "Is he a eunuch?"

He paused and seemed to consider something; his upper lip began to curl, and he suddenly said, "Or perhaps—he has brought the godless depravity of the barracks and trenches back home with him?"

Though his voice dripped with disgust, a snide sort of glee glinted in the Inspector's face at the thought that Thomas Shelby might be a sodomite. Grace thought that Campbell might have taken much pleasure in having Tommy convicted for homosexuality. After all, those men accused of being gay suffered a particular sort of treatment in prison, whether from guards or the other prisoners.

Unfortunately for him, however, that was one crime that Tommy was certainly not guilty of.

"It is neither of those things," Grace replied quietly. "Rather… there is someone else."

"Another woman? There was no other woman when we last spoke, and that was not so long ago," Campbell said, making an incredulous expression. It seemed that he could not believe that Grace could lose the attentions of a man to another woman in—what felt like—the blink of an eye.

"Yes. She arrived not too long ago, but this girl," _is unimaginably charming_, "has charmed him to an unimaginable degree. When she is in the room, he looks to no one else. It is impossible for me to occupy a space that has already been filled so thoroughly."

Campbell chewed thoughtfully on this piece of information. After a short while, he finally said, "If that is your only obstacle, all we must do is to… vacate that space. Will he still want her if she is no longer so pleasant to look at, do you think?"

A burst of alarm ripped through Grace like a scream. Her elbow jerked back in an aborted movement, and she protested, a touch too loudly, "No, that—"

The Inspector's odd look was enough for Grace to realize her blunder. She immediately steadied herself, bringing her arm back to her side. "That is not necessary," she continued, her expression blank and her voice low. "Thomas is not the only Shelby brother; either of the other two will be far more manageable to work with. And the woman, she—she is fond of me. I can convince her to share what information Thomas tells her."

"I see," he said, "Rest assured, Grace. If I perceive that this… other woman is becoming a nuisance to you or our operation, I will be sure to deal with her in a manner most unobtrusive to your safety."

A little agitated, Grace began to say, "No, you…" Then she forcibly calmed herself, and, in a far cooler tone, continued, "You underestimate me. I can handle a single girl on my own. Please do not act unless I send word."

Campbell's probing eyes searched Grace's face for a moment longer. She remained placid under his scrutiny; even after he withdrew his gaze and left the museum hall, she remained as bland and impassive as the stone bust before her. After all, she could not allow herself to be anything else.

* * *

It was approaching the witching hour, as Naomie might have said, and the Garrison was as close to empty as it might ever get without Harry to chase patrons away. Unfortunately, as Harry had decided to go to the cinema to watch the newest Charlie Chaplin movie, Grace was manning the pub alone tonight.

Of course, even Harry could not have shooed out the man currently preventing her from locking up for the night.

"Another bottle, Mr Shelby?" she asked, turning towards the only other person in the pub. There would have been at least a few other men at this time, but the others had taken one look at his cloudy face and immediately filed out.

He grunted without looking up; Grace took that as an affirmation and brought him the bottle of whiskey she'd already had in hand. He grabbed it, threw a few glugs into his glass, and haphazardly knocked it back. With a harsh exhale, he thumped the tumbler back onto the counter and did not move to refill it.

The man's lashes were lowered so she could not see his eyes, but his face was sullen and tired. He looked more vulnerable than she had ever known a Shelby to look.

"Something seems to be troubling you, Mr Shelby," Grace commented, taking care not to watch him too closely. She kept her hands busy wiping down the counter and clearing glasses. "I hear sharing your troubles lessens their weight."

"Yeah?" he grumbled, low in his chest. "Except I ain't got anyone to share with."

"Well," she said. Grace showed him a soft little smile. "Perhaps _I_ may be suitable for the occasion. It's my job, after all."

His head dipped forward. "It's true. That's a fair point," he murmured, almost sleepily. His lashes cast shivering shadows over his cheeks. When he spoke next, his voice was dim and wavering. "Why is it… that everyone in this fucking city knows more about whatever the hell's going on with my family than I do?

"This family keeps everything open. That's what we agreed on. So how come no one in this _fucking_ family thought to tell me that Ada's gone and gotten herself knocked up? She's married a commie and disappeared off the face of the earth, and no one thought to let me know any of this shit was happening. No one. I had no fucking clue," he said, looking so tired and drawn that she was beginning to feel for him. "It's 'cus I'm just fucking stupid, ain't it? I'm too stupid to keep up with the rest of them, so they just don't bother to tell me. Let's just let mangy ol' Arthur stay the berk he is, eh?"

Head still hanging, Arthur pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes until Grace was sure he would see spots. She suspected that he had drunk himself near to weepiness; perhaps he would begin to cry at any moment.

Pity welled up in her, and Grace softened. She reached over the counter to lay a hand on his arm. "I have not once thought of you as lacking intelligence, Mr Shelby," she said, gently. "I may be speaking out of turn, but I believe that your family does not think so either. You are a capable man, and everyone knows it. Certainly, you deserve to be informed when things happen, but perhaps there was a very good reason you weren't. Or perhaps not. But it would do no harm to ask."

Arthur lowered his hands and suddenly looked her straight in the eye—unexpectedly, his eyes were bright and lucid, without any of the dampness that tears would bring.

At the moment their eyes met, Grace felt an odd… something. Like a sharp stirring, or a flash of a spark, from someplace within her. As if Arthur Shelby had pulled a string taut inside her, and it relaxed immediately. It was not enough to make her expression change, but Grace felt a little unsettled by the very memory of it.

"Is that right?" Arthur asked softly, still looking at her. "I guess it's time for me to have a talk with Tommy."

Grace studied him, and found that he did not seem nearly as drunk as she had thought him to be. He had drunk so much, so she had thought…

Well. This was fine, too. It wouldn't do if he moped so much that he could not get anything done; she still needed him so that she could learn more about the guns. Arthur Shelby was not so bad, and had potential to be better—if only he were brought out of the toxic lifestyle he currently lived—but that was not what Grace was here for.

And besides, she far preferred to use this man for the mission than to risk having Naomie being neutralised. After all—Naomie was her friend.

(And if it was Naomie against any of these Shelby men, the choice was only too obvious.)

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**Notes—**

This chapter is definitely short on purpose and not because I got author's block. haha…. also, I got busy with rl and ended up not writing anything much for MONTHS AAA

When I was watching Peaky Blinders, I was struck by how little chemistry Grace and Tommy had. And this baffled me, because Cillian is SO EASY to have chemistry with. Especially as Tommy. And I thought, well, perhaps it's not because of Cillian or Tommy. In fact, it would make a lot of sense if Grace… (two eyes emoji)

And so this happened.

I don't dislike Grace, but I think her character's full potential was definitely not realized in the show. Her character setting and background was so promising, so why does she feel so lackluster in comparison? Since she's a spy, I think the actress blank-facing everything _does_ actually work with the character, but she definitely should have been more… I dunno. Interesting, or charming, or maybe even more ruthless. That could have been fun. These are just my little thoughts, though. This story is not about Grace so I won't address her development quite that much.

What do _you_ guys think about Grace? Lemme know!


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